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^ FATHER DRUMMOND 

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OR 

THE CHILDHEN OF MAEY. 



By MARY C. ^DGAR, 

Authoress of “A Catholic Story, or Four Months’ Residence in the 
House of a Convert from ProtestJintism.” 



“Suffer little children to come imto me, and forbid them not, for of such 
is the kindgom of God.” — Sx. Luke xviii, 16. 


PHILADELPHIA: • 



PUBLISHED BY 

No. 1 


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PQBLISHED WITH THE APPROBATION OF 


THE RIGHT REV. BISHOP OF PHILADELPHIA. 



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Wf, 

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♦ • » 




TO 


THE GREAT MAN OF HIS DAY,* 

AVD 

THE HOPE OF HIS COUNIRY, 

O'CONNELL, 

WHO KINDLY PERMITS THIS LITTLE WORK 

TO BE DEDICATED TO HIM, 

BECAUSE IT IS 

A TALE OF THE CHILDREN OF MARY, 

IT IS NOW RESPECTFULLY OFFERED, 

AS A TRIBUTE OF SINCERE ADMIRATION 

BT 

MARY C. EDGAR. 


3 



FATHEE EEUMMOND 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

“No bosom trembles for thy doomj 
No mourner wipes a tear ; 

The gallows’ foot is all thy tomb, 

The sledge is all thy bier ! 

* # * 

# * * * 

A long adieu ! but where shall fly 
Thy widow all forlorn, 

When every mean and cruel eye 
Regards my woe with scorn ?” 

Campbell. 

When I look back from my present peaceful re- 
tirement upon the world I have quitted, and the 
snares and dangers I have escaped, tears of love and 
gratitude often flow from my eyes, at the thought 
of the guardian angel, ^^who delivereth me,'^ like 
Jacob, ^Hrom all evils and of that sweet and holy 
Mother, to whom, from my earliest years, I have 
had a peculiar devotion. Blessed be God, who has 
given me such protectors ! ^^who has given his an- 
gels charge over me, to keep me in all my ways;'' 
and who, as a proof of his exceeding love for man, 
when dying on the cross, gave me, with St. John, 

1 # 5 


6 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


to his btessed Mother, saying, Woman, behold thy 
son/' May they watch over me till the end ! 

I was born in Scotland, at a place which I shall 
call Clearburn, but my parentswere Irish. I scarcely 
remember either my father or mother, though I 
have a faint idea of being taken to a small misera- 
ble looking room, where a tall man pressed me in 
his arms and kissed me, while the tears ran down 
his cheeks : I remember this particularly, because I 
was quite amazed at a big man crying, having 
thought it was only children who had sorrows. I 
also faintly remember a pale woman, who used to 
watch by my bed at night, and sing me to rest with 
pious hymns, but she did not remain with me long ; 
and after that I was placed under the care of the 
good priest, from whose recital I shall give my pa- 
rents' melancholy story. 

My father and mother were both of respectable, 
though poor families, in Connaught. They were 
brought up together as children ; and when grown 
up, though they had nothing with which to begin 
the world, yet, as he was an excellent laborer, and 
she a tidy and industrious girl, their parents made 
no objection to their marriage. Patrick Whelan, 
as my father was called, soon after took his wife to 
England, where he got employment oh a new road, 
that was being made by government. Here, as he 
had good wages, they lived very happily for a time, 
until a new overseer was appointed. This man, 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


7 


whose name was Jenkins, was of a brutal and sa- 
vage disposition, and had a particular hatred to the 
Irish. My poor father was singled out as the chief 
object of his tyranny. Nothing he could do was 
satisfactory ; reproaches and curses were heaped upon 
him; and what my father’s naturally proud spirit 
felt still more, the other men, emboldened by the 
overseer’s example, jeered and laughed at him 
continually. Fortunately, there was a good priest 
near, whose injunctions prevented my father re- 
turning their insults with blows — but, little by 
little, his spirits sunk under this treatment; his 
temper became soured, and now and then he went 
to an ale-house for consolation. The good priest, 
pitying my poor mother, who was just going to be 
confined, did all in his power to save my father 
from the ruin which threatened him ; but, for some 
time, his exertions were fruitless, as, though my 
father made good resolutions, he had not courage 
to keep them. At last, one evening he returned 
home so much the worse of liquor, as to strike his 
poor wife, who had hitherto never received a harsh 
word from him. In the morning, his grief and 
shame were so great, that the priest took advantage 
of his good dispositions, to join with his wife in 
persuading him at once to give up his situation, 
and use the little money he had saved to take his 
family to Scotland, where he might obtain employ- 
ment of the same kind. 


8 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


Shortly after the arrival of my parents in Scot- 
land, I was born. My father had found employ- 
ment on the road near Clearburn, where he took a 
room for my mother. The other laborers were 
chiefly Irish,, so that he was no longer exposed to 
his former annoyances. Between the reformation 
of her husband and the birth of her child, my mo- 
ther was one of the happiest women in existence j 
and Mr. Drummond, who was priest there, has 
since told me, that for two years both my parents 
were an example to the rest of his flock. Ah I if 
things had continued thus; but God willed it other- 
wise. 

The third year of my parents’ residence in Scot- 
land had scarcely commenced, when an event hap- 
pened, which changed all their circumstances : — the 
road on which my father had been employed in 
England, being flnished, Mr. Jenkins was sent as 
overseer to Clearburn. The old system of perse- 
cution now recommenced; and though, there being 
many other Irishmen among the laborers, my father 
did not bear the efiects of his tyranny alone — he 
did not feel it the less from seeing the sufferings 
of his friends and countrymen. Upon the slightest 
pretext, Mr. Jenkins would turn the Irishmen out 
of employment, and substitute Scotch or English 
in their place. The consequences might almost 
have been foretold : those who remained, combined 
together against the overseer. My father, knowing 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


9 


that as a member of a secret society, he could not 
receive absolution, no longer attended to his duties. 
The meetings of the combined men were held in 
an ale-house, and it may be supposed intoxicating 
liquors were not spared. It was resolved that Jen- 
kins should be waylaid and beat, as a warning to 
change his conduct. My father and two others 
were appointed to give him this punishment, and 
an hour was fixed, when he would be returning 
from a friend’s house, with whom he was in the 
habit of spending the evenings. My father and 
his companions were well plied with whiskey by 
the other conspirators, to give them courage, and 
at the appointed time they seized the wretched 
man, and beat him so severely, that he never reco- 
vered : he died the next day, after accusing my fa- 
ther of being his murderer, though whether he 
really had recognized him in the dark, or merely 
suspected him, as one likely to feel ill-will to him, 
I do not know. My father was tried, found guilty, 
and condemned to death. Mr. Drummond, who 
constantly attended him, did all in his power to 
procure a mitigation of his sentence, on the ground, 
of the murder being unpremeditated; but the ill- 
will existing between Jenkins and Patrick Whelan 
was too well known, for this plea to be believed. 
My father, who had never hoped for success', re- 
ceived the news of his final condemnation, with the 
utmost resignation : he prepared himself for death, 


10 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


■mth sentiments of the most profound contrition, 
and suffered the last sentence of the law, in perfect 
conformity to the will of God, beseeching him to 
accept the shame he endured and the pains of his 
body, in atonement for the sins of his soul. 

My poor mo her did not long survive her hus- 
band; and at her death, as my Irish relations were 
too poor to support me, Mr. Drummond, who had 
promised my dying mother never to forsake me, 
took me under his own care. 


CHAPTER II. 


“Oh! our childhood’s days are ne’er forgot 
On life’s dark sea; 

And memory hails that sacred spot 
Where’er we be.” 

D. Weir. 

I WAS not the only unfortunate orphan whom 
the good priest had adopted. Though most people 
would have thought his income barely sufficient to 
support himself, yet by dint of the strictest econo- 
my, aided sometimes by the contributions of his 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


11 


friends, he had made good Christians and useful 
members of society out of many, who without him 
would probably have perished. At the time of my 
mother’s death, there were three other boys under 
his care. One, called Tom M’Donald, was about 
twelve years of age, and the other two who were 
brothers, were as little as myself. We were all 
four under the charge of Mr. Drummond’s house- 
keeper, a kind-hearted, but sometimes cross old 
woman, called Nelly, who used to teach us all sorts 
of household work. We also learned to make our- 
selves useful in the garden; a neighboring Catholic 
proprietor having built a nice house for the priest, 
in the midst of two or three acres of land, within 
five minutes walk of the chapel. How I love to 
look back to these dear fields, and the happy hours I 
have spent in them ! We used to rise at six o’clock, 
and go to the chapel to mass at seven, where Tom 
usually served, though on Sundays we were all 
taught, even the least of us, to join in the proces- 
sion, and behave with decency and reverence. After 
mass we ran home, and got as much porridge and 
milk as we could eat for breakfast : Mr. Drummond 
used then to study for a couple of hours in the li- 
brary, while Tom M’Donald, with Nelly’s assistance, 
swept out the house, and we little ones played about 
thetn, ready to run errands, or now and then to 
dust anything with which we could be trusted. 
At twelve o’clock the Angelus bell rang, by which 


12 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


I forgot to mention, we were also awakened in the 
mornings, and after saying the prayer, we proceeded 
to the library, where Mr. Drummond taught us our 
lessons for an hour and a half. He then went out 
to his sick calls, and Nelly to the kitchen, while 
Tom taught Joe and Dick Byrne and myself to weed 
in the garden, where, in case we should be hungry, 
Nelly always supplied each of us with a great lump 
of bread and cheese. At four, Mr. Drummond 
came home to dinner, and after dinner in the sum- 
mer evenings, we always played in the fields till 
seven, when we three little ones got our supper and 
went to bed, though Tom got leave to stay up later, 
and when it was not a confession night, had a Latin 
lesson from Mr. Drummond. What a kind old 
man he was, and how we all loved him ! He used 
to come out to see us play sometimes in the after- 
noons to our great joy, and though Nelly, thinking 
on such occasions, that we made too much noise, 
used to reprove us, he never would listen to her 
complaints. No, no, Nelly,^’ he would say, don’t 
keep down the poor bairns ; let them play, let them 
be happy. They are all most especially the chil- 
dren of him who is the Father of the fatherless ; and 
will not his loving, fatherly heart be well pleased 
to see his little children at play?” Then, when 
we were tired, or on the winter afternoons, when it 
was too dark to go out, he would call us round him, 
and tell us holy and simple stories, befitting our 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


13 


tender years, to inspire us with love towards the 
infant Jesus, and his sweet Mother. He would 
tell us of two little boys like ourselves, who went 
every day to serve at mass, and who while waiting 
for the priest, used to play in the sacristy, and eat 
the cakes that their mother had given them. They 
used to see a little, boy who stood with his mother 
in a corner of the sacristy, and one day they asked 
him to come and play with them, and get a share 
of their cakes; after this time he joined them always, 
and they shared with him whatever they had; but 
they wondered very much that he never gave them 
anything; One day they told all about it to the 
priest, and asked him what they should do, and he 
desired them to ask the little boy himself what was 
the reason. Accordingly, the next time he came 
to play with them, they said, why is it that your 
mother never gives you any cake to share with us V ^ 
Then the little boy replied, “ my mother is going 
to give a great feast soon, and she bid me ask 
you to come to it,” and he told them what day 
the feast was to be, and it was the fifteenth of 
August. The two little brothers ran with great 
joy to the priest, to tell him they were bidden to 
the feast, and the priest desired them to ask the 
little boy if he might go also. They did so, and 
the little boy said he might. The day at last ar- 
rived, and the little brothers came joyfully to the 
church to serve at mass before going to the feast. 


14 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


When the priest had finished mass, he came down 
to the foot of the altar, and with one of the little 
hoys on each side of him, turned round to adore 
our Lord, when at that moment the lifeless bodies, 
of all three fell down on the steps, while their 
happy souls went to keep the feast of their glorious 
Mother in heaven on her Assumption. 

Such were the means by which our good Father 
Drummond inspired us with the devotion, which in 
after years has been our guard and protection in 
many temptations and trials. 

It was his especial care to render religion a plea- 
sure to us. Thus, whenever he had any little pre- 
sent to give it was produced on a feast day. On 
every feast of the Blessed Virgin, we prepared an 
altar in her honor, not only in the church, but also 
at home, and as we grew older, and were each able 
to take care of his own little garden, it was our 
pride and pleasure to try who could present the 
sweetest flowers to our dear Mother. Each dif- 
ferent season of the year had its especial devotion ; 
at Christmas time we were taught to offer up our 
every action in honor of the child Jesus, and to be 
even more than usually attentive to the calls of 
charity. Happy he among us who could find a fa- 
mily of beggars, consisting of an old man, a woman, 
and a little child, for such, in honor of Jesus, Mary, 
and Joseph, were always brought into supper, and 
waited upon by ourselves. We were encouraged 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


15 


frequently to make little sacrifices. Once, for ex- 
ample, I remember Dick Byrne, had raised some 
early strawberries in his garden ^ there were only a 
few of them, but they were the first of the season, 
and when they were ripe, he called a general con- 
sultation what should be done with them. ^‘Done 
with them!’’ cried Tom, “why send them in to 
supper I” “No, no,” cried Dick and I in a breath, 
“there are too few, give them all to papa Drum- 
mond.” All this time little Joe had not spoken, 
but his eyes were filled with tears, and when we 
turned to him, he threw his arms round his bro- 
ther’s neck and cried, “Oh, dear Dick, give the 
first and best of everything to little Jesus and his 
Mother.” With one consent we ran to the altar, 
and Dick with a heightened color, laid upon it his 
beautiful plate of strawberries. 

At four o’clock, as usual, ]Mr. Drummond came 
back to dinner, and the first words he said on en- 
tering the door, where we all met him, were ad- 
dressed to Nelly — “Is there any fruit ripe, Nelly? 
I want to send some to that poor woman, Mary 
Neale, who is not long for this world, and fruit 
seems the only thing she can fancy.” 

“’Deed sir,” replied Nelly, “there ’s no’ a berry 
fit to eat, if it be na in Dick’s bit garden : but, I 
daur say the bairns ha’e eaten them a’, for I saw 
them pu’in’ them this mornin’.” To this speech 
Dick replied nothing, but taking Mr. Drummoad by 


16 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


the hand, led him into the library to the little altar, 
showed him the plate of strawberries, and told him 
the whole story. 

^^And now sir,” he said, ^Mo you think the 
Blessed Virgin will be angry, if I take them again 
to give to the poor woman 

“No, my dear child,” said the good man, “I am 
sure she will not; on the contrary, I think she has 
shown that your little offering has been accepted, 
and has sent you as a reward this opportunity of 
doing good. After dinner you shall all run to the 
village, and leave the strawberries with poor Mary, 
and I am sure that will give you more pleasure than 
if you had eaten them yourselves a hundred times.'^ 


CHAPTER III. 

“And as I watch the line of light that plays 
Along the smooth wave tow’rd the burning west, 

I long to tread that golden path of rays, 

And tliink ’t would lead to some bright isle of rest.’* 

Moore. 

Several years passed away and found us all in- 
creased in health and strength, with the exception 
of poor little Joe; though the youngest of our fa- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


17 


mily, he promised to be superior to his brother in 
height, until his fifth year, when he met with an 
accident, by falling off a tree which he had climbed 
to pull some apples for a poor beggar-child, who, in 
passing had begged for them; the poor fellow was 
much bruised, but no one thought anything serious 
had happened to him, and indeed, Nelly, as she 
dipped some rags into arquebusade, to apply to his 
wounds, gave him a good scold for his stupidity. 
But when some months had elapsed, and the child 
grew thin and pale; and when both Dick and I shot 
past him in height, Mr. Drummond became seri- 
ously alarmed, and determined to get better advice 
for him than that of the country apothecary who 
used to attend us ; he accordingly wrote to a medi- 
cal friend in Grlasgow, and the following Sunday he 
arrived at our cottage. Little J oe was called in to 
him, and examined, but when he came out he could 
tell nothing about the doctor’s opinion, though he 
knew that he had promised to come out now and 
then, during the summer. In the evening when 
Doctor Forbes was gone, and Joe was in bed, Mr. 
Drummond called us all into the study, and told us 
he had something of importance to say to us. “ My 
dear children,’’ he said, ^^you have hitherto been 
very good boys indeed, and I have rarely had oc- 
casion to find fault with any of you. I am now 
going to tell you something which, I hope, may 
bind you closer to one another than ever. Doctor 


18 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


Forbes tells me that though he apprehends nothing 
immediately dangerous in the case of our dear little 
Joe, that he must never expect to regain full health 
and strength, and will, in all probability, be de- 
formed all his life. Before sending him to bed I 
told him so, and the dear child is quite resigned to 
the will of God. And now, my dear boys, I tell 
you all this, because, were I to die, I know not 
what would become of him. In such a case I have 
already made arrangements for all of you, that you 
should each be taught that to which your inclina- 
tions prompt you; for the poor weakly child I can 
do nothing but commend him to the care of Jesus 
and his blessed Mother, and to the affection and 
brotherly love of you all. Will you then promise 
me, that whether I am alive or dead, this little one 
will be your charge ? To you, Tom, especially, as 
the eldest, do I recommend him; you are already 
well admnced in your studies, and by the blessing 
of God, I hope, in a few years, you will be ready 
to serve him at his holy altar. But all of you, 
however young, are able to love and cherish, in an 
especial manner, one who has so many claims upon 
you; for though Dick is the only one who had the 
same parents with him, you are all brothers in the 
sight of God, and equal in my affections.” 

I shall never forget that night. Not one of us 
had any idea before how seriously ill little Joe was; 
and the intelligence affected us all to tears, which 


AND nis ORPHANS. 


19 


were even increased on hearing our kind father al- 
lude to the possibility of himself dying soon. I 
believe there was not one of us who did not men- 
tally resolve that little Joe should always be his pecu- 
liar care ; for there is no cold prudence in the hearts 
of children — no fear that they may suffer from the 
want of what they give to others; they have come 
lately from their Creator’s hands, and still retain 
some little resemblance to his infinite love. 

The next morning when we saw little Joe, we 
all remarked that a change had come over him : 
though his disposition had always been sweet and 
kind, from this time he was more like a little angel. 
It seemed as if, knowing that he was not fitted to 
encounter the storms of this world, he had deter- 
mined to lose not a moment in preparing himself 
for his heavenly home. He was no longer able to 
play with us in the evenings ; but he used to come 
out and watch us, sitting on the bank, and enjoy- 
ing our games as much as if he had joined in 
them. In general, there was an expression of me- 
lancholy on his sweet face, but on these occasions 
his merry laugh might be heard as he encouraged 
one or other of us. Though unable to compete 
with us in bodily exercises, his mind was far in 
advance either of Dick’s or mine ; he could not study 
his lessons long, but he seemed, with little labor, to 
comprehend what we never could master, till Mr. 
Drummond had gone over it with us. Though I 


20 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


was not old enough to appreciate the wisdom of 
this babe at the time, I have since heard Mr. Drum- 
mond say, that his remarks used to astonish every 
one. It appeared as if that blessed Mother, whom 
he so loved, had determined that even on earth no 
one should doubt he was with her a favorite child. 
Great part of his time was spent in prayer; indeed 
it was impossible to tell how much he prayed, for 
often when he thought no one observed him, we 
used to see his lips moving, and his little hands 
clasped together. 

The summer passed away, and instead of getting 
any better, Joe gradually lost the little strength he 
had. Dr. Forbes came now and then to see him; 
but the remedies he ordered never did him much 
good, though the poor child was most exact in doing 
every thing he was bid. At last he became so weak 
as scarcely to be able to walk at all; but Mr. Drum- 
mond got him a little garden-chair in which Tom 
used to pull him about the garden, and to the chapel 
to hear mass; or if Tom was engaged otherwise, 
Dick and I could manage it — one drawing, and the 
other pushing behind. All this time we had no 
idea that Joe’s illness was dangerous, and we used 
often to talk of what we would do for him when 
we should be grown men. 

One beautiful autumnal evening, Tom had been 
sent a message, and Dick and I bad harnessed our- 
selves with pieces of string to Joe’s garden-chair; 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


21 


we were waiting impatiently for his coming out, 
but it was a long time before he was ready, for Dr. 
Forbes had been seeing him, and when he was gone, 
Mr. Drummond kept Joe in the study to speak to 
him. At last Mr. Drummond came to the window 
and called out to us that he was afraid Joe would 
be too tired for his drive that evening. As this 
was the first time we had thought of playing at 
horses in the chair, we were much disappointed, 
and begged hard for him to come for a very little time, 
promising to take great care not to fatigue him. 
“ What do you say, my child said Mr. Drum- 
mond to Joe, who was beside him. Should you 
like to go or not “ 0 yes, dear father,’^ he re- 
plied, “or poor Pat and Dick will have had all 
their trouble for nothing.^’ 

A minute afterwards. Father Drummond carried 
Jo6 down stairs, and placed him in his chair. Both 
Dick and I noticed that he had been shedding tears; 
but we did not ask what was the matter, for he 
looked perfectly happy. After two or three turns 
up and down the walks, we got out of breath, and 
stopped to rest. “Joe,’^ said Dick, “Pat and I 
have been quarrelling which of us is to have you 
to live with us when we turn big men; now, if you 
will promise to come to me, Fll give you the pret- 
tiest little carriage you ever saw, with two beautiful 
white ponies to draw it, just such ponies as I was 
telling you I saw go through the town last Satur- 


22 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


day; ohj so beautiful and milk-white V* “But, Joe/' 
interrupted I, “Til give you black ponies without 
one white hair, and then they’ll never look dirty 
and yellow like what Dick’s will." “ But they sha’n’ t 
look dirty," cried Dick, “ for they shall always have 
beautiful dry roads to go upon." “So you’ll have 
poor Joe at home all the winter time — will you, 
Dick ? Much good your carriage will do him in- 
deed ! No, no, Joe come to me, and you shall ride 
about both summer and winter." 

Dick was so vexed, he was almost like to cry, 
but little Joe took a hand of each of us, and said, 
“dont mind, dear Dick — be good, dear Pat, — I 
should be very happy living with either one or other 
of you; not for the sake of the ponies, for I never 
should like them half as well as the two dear good 
ponies that have drawn me to-night. But I don’t 
think I can go to either of you, for somebody else 
wants me." 

“Do you mean that you want to stay always with 
Father Drummond, or to live with Tom?" asked 
Dick, while his face got red, and the tears came 
again into his eyes. 

“No, no," replied Joe, “I don’t mean either of 
them, I mean " 

But before he could finish his sentence T snatched 
away my. hand from him, and cried out — “and 
you would leave us for strangers — would you? 
Joe, I never could have believed it of you; come 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


23 


away into the house, Dick, and send Nelly for 
him; he don’t care a rush for us.” 

So saying, I ran down the walk, and Dick was 
just going to follow me, when we were stopped by 
little J oe’s voice, Oh, Pat !” he cried, Oh, Dick, 
don’t leave me ! Listen to what I’ve got to tell 
you. Sure you know I wouldn’t love strangers 
better than you.” 

We came slowly back, but when we saw the tears 
in the poor child’s eyes, and when he held out his 
little mouth to us, neither of us could resist him, 
and we kissed him over and over again. ^^And 
now, dear Pat,” he said, ‘Oet me tell you what I 
mean. It is not to strangers I will go, but to our 
own dear mother, Mary; she wants me to go and 
live with her and little Jesus, and be always happy 
— aye far happier even than I could be with you, 
my own dear brothers.” 

Dick and I looked at one another, frightened. 
^^What do you mean, Joe?” 

^‘I mean that Dr. Forbes says I won’t live here 
long — that I am going to die. But don’t cry so, 
dear boys. Dear Pat — stop, my own darling bro- 
ther, Dick. Don’t you both wish me to be happy ? 
and, oh, how happy I shall be ! and instead of your 
pretty little carriages and ponies, I shall ride about 
on some of these golden clouds, and in the evenings 
I will come just above you, and watch you playing 
in the garden; and if ever you quarrel with one 


24 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


another, you will think that your own little Joe is 
looking, and is vexed to see you not good friends, 
and then you will kiss one another, and I will 
laugh and clap my hands, though may-be you won't 
hear me." 

But all Joe’s promises had no effect, the shock 
was so sudden. We had never thought he could 
leave us. It was not till Mr. Drnmmond, afraid 
of the night-air for Joe, came to seek us, that we 
summoned courage to return to the house; and I 
believe the only one in the House who slept sound- 
ly that night was little Joe himself. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 

In life’s early beauty, hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a blight o’er the spirit’s young bloom. 

Or earth had profan’d what was born for the skies. 

“ Death came o’er the fountain ere sorrow had stain’d it, 

’T was frozen in all the pure light of its source, 

And but sleeps till the sunshine of heav’n has unchain’d it, 
To water that Eden where first was its source.” 

T. Moore. 

Autumn passed away, and winter came on — 
cold bleak winter — and as the leaves fell off the 


AND Ills ORPHANS. 


25 


treeS; J oe became thinner and paler, and still weaker 
than before. He soon gave up his rides in the 
garden chair; a little while after, he could not leave 
his room, and in another little while, he was con- 
fined altogether to bed. But, oh how happy and 
contented he always was ! and, if now and then a 
tear in his eye shewed how much he sufiered, he 
would smile the moment after. We all loved to 
be beside him, and would never have left his room, 
had not Mr. Drummond frequently sent us out to 
the fresh air. I have said before, that Nelly was 
sometimes cross to us, but she seemed quite changed 
during the latter part of Joe^s illness; he had always 
been her favorite, and now her love for him became 
greater than ever. Father Drummond had to hire 
another woman to cook, as no persuasions could 
mduce Nelly to leave Joe^s bedside, except for one 
or two hours^ rest during the day. She always 
called him ‘‘her ain bairn,’" and, though naturally 
hasty and impatient, no mother could have attended 
more closely to his wishes. Even to us, she was 
no longer cross: I think our love to little Joe, had 
touched her; for from that time her temper became 
much milder, and when she reproved us, it was 
“more in sorrow than in anger.” 

Christmas was now fast approaching, and Joe 
used often to speak of this his best loved feast: 

‘ ‘ Do you remember how we kept last Christmas ? ’ 
he asked us one day; “what a number of poor 


26 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


people we had at dinner that day ! Do you know 
there was one old woman, the stranger with the 
curious cap, and the beautiful silver hair, and when 
she was going away, she let fall her stick, and 
though I had not been well, and could not wait at 
table, I was able to run and pick it up for her. 
Well, she put her hand on my head, and stroked 
my hair, and I asked her if she was very* old, and 
she said, ^Yes, my bairn, I am very old, an’, as 
God wills I should be here — I am contented — 
but dinna pray for a long life in this wicked world ; 
rather ask the blessed bairn that was born this day 
to take you to hiniseF while you are a bairn also.’ 
1 remember so well every word she said, and I have 
often thought since, little Jesus will not leave me 
here after he comes next time. 0 how sweet it 
would be to die on Christmas day, and to see how 
they keep it in heaven !” 

Nelly never liked to hear Joe talk of dying, and 
she now stopped him, saying, ^‘Whisht, whisht, 
my bairn, dinna speak that way ) yon was naethin’ 
but auld wives’ clavers; wi’ God’s 'help, and the 
Blessed Virgin’s, by Christmas ye’ll be gettin’ 
strong.” 

Joe shook his head; ^^No, no, dear Nelly,” he 
said, ‘‘I shall never get strong again; at least I 
hope not, for now that I have once made up my 
mind to leave you all, death seems so sweet ! And 
when I get to heaven, how I shall pray for you ! 


AND HIS ORPHANS^. 


27 


You must each tell me what you want most to get, 
and I will give your messages to our dear Mother, 
and never let her forget them till she gets all you 
want from her Son; come, Nelly, do you begin; 
what shall I ask for you?’^ 

Nelly burst into tears; ^^Oh my bairn! my ain 
dear bairn, gin ye maun leave me, ask that my un- 
gratefu’ heart be conformed to His will. But oh ! 
it ^11 be a sair trial 

From this time, Nelly used often to speak in 
private with Joe, and so, indeed, did we all; for 
we each had some request to our holy Mother, that 
we wished to send through him. 

Christmas eve at length arrived; Joe had been 
very unwell for several days, but this evening he 
felt a little better, and at length persuaded Nelly 
to leave him a little, and seek the rest she so much 
needed. Father Drummond promised to sit beside 
him until it should be time to go to the chapel for 
the midnight mass, when he would be again relieved 
by Nelly. Joe was very quiet all the time Father 
Drummond was in the room, and when a little after 
eleven, Nelly came in, he thinking the child was 
asleep, stepped gently to the side of the bed, and 
made the sio-n of the cross over him. am not 

O 

asleep, dear father,^^ he said; ^^will you come in 
again and see me, after you come back? and oh, 
dear father, will you say mass for me V* 

When Mr. Drummond, accompanied by Tom, 


28 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


Dick, and myself, had left the house, Nelly took 
hold of Joe’s hand, and was alarmed to find it 
burning. Ye’re no’ sae weel, my bairn,” she 
said, “try an’ get a sleep.” 

“No matter for sleep now, dear Nelly,” he re- 
plied; “I am going! the little Jesus will come for 
me very soon ! I shall live till after Father Drum- 
mond comes back; but I would not tell him how 
ill I was, for fear he might think of me in my little 
room, instead of Jesus and Mary at Bethlehem.” 

By the time we returned to the house, Joe’s 
appearance was so much changed that Mr. Drum- 
mond delayed not a moment administering the 
last sacraments. After that, Joe seemed to doze 
for a little, while we all watched around, and re- 
peated the prayers for the dying. At last about 
half-past three o’clock, he once more opened his 
eyes, and looking around, said to us, “Kiss me all, 
quick 1 quick ! they are waiting for me ! look how 
beautiful she is! Dear, dear little Jesus, I am 
coming! See, my Mother is going to help me 
up !” and so saying, he half raised himself, stretched 
out his little hands, and with a lovely smile upon 
his face — expired. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


29 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ So loathe we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us ; 

So turn our hearts, where’er we rove. 

To those we’ve left behind us !” 

Moore. 

I SHALL pass briefly over several years that fol- 
lowed the death of little Joe, and proceed at once 
to the time when I, a stout lad of eighteen, was 
about to leave the Mnd friend who had sheltered 
my childhood, in order to make my way in the 
world for myself. Tom had long before proceeded 
to college, to study for the priesthood, and within 
the last two years, Mr. Drummond had, though 
unwillingly, yielded to Dick^s exceeding desire to 
go to sea. I was therefore the last of our family 
at home, and though I know my kind father would 
fain have had me always with him, he was aware 
that it was for my own advantage that I should 
early be able to support myself. 

It now only remained to choose an occupation, 
and on that point my mind Was already made up. 
I was passionately fond of riding, and had been 
in the habit, from my childhood, of running up to 
the great house at every opportunity, and taking 
the horses to water, &c. Of late years, also, I had 
3 * 


30 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


taken entire charge of a horse that had been pre- 
sented to Mr. Drummond by his people, on account 
of his great labors and advancing years. In spite, 
therefore, of various plans, much more advanta- 
geous, proposed to me by Mr. Drummond, I still 
persevered in my wish to be a servant in a small 
family, where one or two horses were kept, of which 
I might have the entire charge. 

I shall not soon forget the day on which the 
good man told me my wishes were accomplished, 
as he had procured such a situation for me as I 

desired, in the town of A . As I was requited 

to set out for my future master’s residence imme- 
diately, my preparations were hurriedly made. The 
morning of my departure from Clearburn, Father 
Drummond once more called me into the study 
where I had often been so happy, and addressed 
me in the following maimer : — ■ 

My dear boy, you are now going to leave me, 
and enter upon a world of which you have hitherto 
seen but little. You are young and sanguine, and 
look forward to a happy career, and it will probably 
depend on yourself whether your anticipations be 
correct or not. In this I do not speak in a merely 
worldly point of view, for you may perhaps meet 
with many misfortunes through no fault of your 
own. But if you act up to the principles I have 
always inculcated, you will live and die well, even 
though your days be spent in toil and weariness. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


31 


You have, I am happy to say, a tender devotion to 
the blessed Mother of God, and this devotion is a 
most precious gift from her divine Son; for she 
never has abandoned those who have had recourse 
to her, and will not abandon you, my son, as long 
as you regard her with filial confidence. And now, 
my dear boy, there is another subject on which I 
must speak to you : your principles are good, and 
you have an excellent heart, but you are easily ex- 
cited and cast down. When your feelings are ap- 
pealed to, you are in great danger, for you know 
not how to resist, and you cannot bear to be taunted 
or laughed at; you are passionate and hasty, al- 
though, to do you justice, you never bear malice. 
Now, my dear boy, these are very dangerous faults, 
and I need only remind you of your own poor father, 
whose natural dispositions were much like your own, 
to induce you to avoid any thing that may tend to 
excite the passions. Will you then, Pat, make me 
a promise never to taste ardent spirits ? It may 
appear no great sacrifice to you at present, as you 
have never been accustomed to them, but before 
binding you it is but fair to warn you of the temp- 
tations to break your promise to which you will be 
exposed. You are fond of society, and will often 
meet with other lads of agreeable manners, who will 
offer to treat you, and expect you to do the same 
for them in return, and who, if you refuse, will make 
game of you for your temperance. Now, my boy, 


32 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


if you believe you can resist such annoyances as 
these, you will escape one of the greatest dangers 
that will probably assail you through life. What 
do you think, Pat? Will you venture to make the 
promise ? It is much easier never to begin a bad 
habit, than to break it off after it is contracted. 

Without hesitation I would have made the pro- 
mise, but again and again did Mr. Drummond warn 
me of the temptations to which I should be exposed. 
At last, however, seeing me firm in my resolution, 
he allowed me to give him my word that I would 
never knowingly taste ardent spirits, and then be- 
stowing on me his blessing, he once more, with 
tears in his eyes, implored me to be devout to the 
holy Mother of God, and dismissed me. 

Before going down stairs to say good-bye to Nelly, 
I stayed a moment at the door of the study to re- 
cover myself, and I heard my kind father, who be- 
lieved me gone, praying fervently for me, at the 
foot of the little altar. 

<^Oh, my God,’' he said, ^^Thou gavest me this 
child pure and innocent, and pure and innocent do 
I return him, now that he can no longer be under 
my care; watch over him during his perilous jour- 
ney through the world, and bring him safely to 
thy kingdom, to be thine own child. Oh, holy 
Mother of God, forsake him not; obtain for him 
the grace always to love thy dear Son, and to be 
thy true and loviog servant.” 


t 


A^D HIS ORPHANS. 


33 


Here the good man’s voice became choked, and 
almost blinded by my tears, I hastened down stairs. 

I found poor Nelly weeping bitterly when I went 
to say farewell, for she had dearly loved us all, es- 
pecially after the death of Joe. As I was leaving 
the house, she attempted to thrust some money into 
my hand, the fruit of her little savings. I assured 
her that Mr. Drummond had provided whatever I 
should require. 

'^Weel, weel, my bairn,’' she said, ^^it’s a’ ane. 
Whatever I leave sail gang to you three, an’ the 
ane that wants it maist, sail get the maist, sae when 
ye need what I can gie ye, come ah’ ask it.” 

It was with a heavy heart that I mounted the 
coach which was to carry me to a new abode, and 
far from all I loved; but the refreshing morning 
breeze and the change of scene soon inspired me 
with more cheerful feelings. I remembered that I 
was now going to support myself, and thereby enable 
Mr. Drummond to spend upon others the money 
that had been hitherto expended in my support, 
and I thought with delight that I might one day 
be able to save enough to maintain some other little 
orphan as mournfully situated as I was when first 
received by my kind father. These thoughts soon 
cheered me up, so that I could enjoy the lovely 
scenery through which we passed during a great 
part of our journey. It was on the evening of the 
second day that I arrived at the residence of my 


34 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


future master. It was an old fashioned building, 

at the outskirts of the town of A , with a large 

courtyard and extensive garden. I was kindly 
welcomed by Mr. Murray’s housekeeper, who gave 
me supper, and showed me a little bed-room where 
I was to sleep, telling me I had better lie down at 
once, and be ready early next morning to meet my 
master, who was not then at home. 

The day following, immediately after an early 
breakfast, I was told that Mr. Murray desired to 
speak with me in his study. When I entered the 
room, he looked at me for a minute or two without 
speaking; and though I was not so rude as to stare 
at him in return, I shall describe his appearance, 
as I became familiar with it afterwards. . 

Mr. Murray was a tall, thin man, about sixty 
years old; the greater part of his head was bald; 
but where the hair remained, it was pretty thick, 
and a mixture of black and white. At first, I 
thought he looked harsh and stern; but when he 
smiled, which was rarely, the expression of his 
countenance became very beautiful. He was a 
little lame, so that he seldom or never walked, and 
almost all the exercise he took was on horseback. 

After inquiring kindly about my journey from 
Clearburn, he said — ^^What is your age?” 

I replied — “I am eighteen, sir.” 

^^So young!” he said. You are well grown. 
How long have you been with Mr. Drummond ?” 


AND HTS ORPHANS. 35 

long almost as I can remember, sir/^ I 
answered. 

course you are a Catholic? Well, well,^^ 
he continued, as I was about to reply, ^^we shall 
agree very well in spite of that, I dare say. From 
all I hear of him, Mr. Drummond is a man of too 
much sense to make you a bigot.^^ 

hope I am not a bigot, sir,” I answered; ^‘but 
I would rather die, than in any way compromise 
my religion. 

Mr. Murray raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

he exclaimed; however, if you do your 
duty to me, I shall not complain. I shall take 
care that you have an opportunity of going to cha- 
pel every Sunday and feast-day ; but recollect, that 
if you neglect taking advantage of the hours at 
which you can well be spared, that is, if you do 
not go to the early mass, I shall not keep my other 
servants at home on your account in the forenoon. 
And now, with regard to your duties, you have two 
horses to take care of, and you must go out with 
me frequently. The housekeeper will inform you 
of your other employments. I shall not keep you 
longer at present. You will not find me a hard 
master, provided you do your duty; and, above all,’^ 
he continued, sternly, never tell me a lie.^^ 

T replied that I hoped I should never be guilty 
of so mean a vice. 

^‘It is well,’' he said; and I left the room. 


36 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


chap'tek yl 

“ Martin . — I shall be fuddled anon. 

Daniel . — And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable 
All. — O ! a shocking vice. {They drmk round.) [vice. 

Feter . — Inasmuch as it taketh away the understanding. 
Daniel . — And makes the eyes red. 

Peter . — And the tongue to stammer. 

Daniel . — And to blab out secrets.” 

Charles Lamb. 

Mr. IMurray, as I afterwards heard from the 
housekeeper, Mrs. Hope, was the younger son of a 
very old family. He had early in life offended his 
relatives ; so that when his elder brother died with- 
out children of his own, he passed over my master, 
and left all his fortune to be accumulated for Mas- 
ter Henry, Mr. Murray’s only child, until he should 
come of age. The young gentleman was now about 
eighteen, and at college. Mrs. Hope seemed very 
fond of him, and said he was beloved by every one. 

^^To tell you the truth, Pat,” she said, ^‘it is a 
great expense on my maister to keep his son at 
Oxford, and he canna very weel afford it. Ye may 
see yersel’ how plainly he lives; the only kind of 
pleasure he has is his horses; and that, considering 
his lameness, he canna weel want. But wha wadna 
do as muckle for dear Maister Henry.” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


37 


Mrs. Hope used to give me a great deal of good 
advice, particularly against bad companions, as she 
told me many of the lads in the neighborhood were 
idle and worthless. 

“An^ I advise you to take care of yerseiy^ she 
added ; for, though Mr. Murray scarcely ever speaks 
to ony of the folk hereabouts, yet, somehow or other, 
naething seems to happen without his knowing it.” 

I said nothing in reply; but I thought to myself, 
^^If I never do any thing that I am ashamed of 
my guardian angel seeing, I shall not be afraid of 
any thing Mr. Murray can know.” 

Before I left Clearburn, Mr. Drummond had 
given me a very beautiful print -of the Blessed 
Virgin and child; and I hung it up opposite my 
bed, that I might see it the first thing on awaking 
every morning. Mrs. Hope had never seen any 
thing of the kind before, but told me she liked it 
very much, only she hoped I was not so ignorant 
as to pray to a piece of paper. I told her I always 
said my prayers before the picture, but that I only 
did so to awaken my devotion to Jesus, and love 
to his holy Mother, as I knew the picture itself 
could neither hear nor see me. This seemed to 
.satisfy her; and indeed I found her very kind with 
regard to ever}'' thing connected with my religion . 
Mr. Murray had desired her always to prepare fish 
for me on Fridays; and she herself bade me always 
tell her on other days when abstinence was required. 


38 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


I lived here very happily for some time, riding 
out behind my master every day, for he never 
minded the weather. We used to go many miles, 
galloping over mountain and moor in every direc- 
tion, for Mr. Murray was a fearless rider, and he 
soon saw that I was never afraid to follow him. 
Every Sunday and feast-day I attended the seven 
o’clock mass, and once^ a fortnight I went to my 
duty, and received the holy communion. 

One Saturday I had been out till very late with 
my master, and coming home tired, I was too lazy 
to go to confession that night, though it was my 
usual time. I intended rising earlier next morning, 
and going to the chapel in time before massj but 
I slept too long, and had afterwards to wait in the 
vestry until several others, who were before me, 
had made their confessions. When at last I was 
finished, and entered the chapel, I found mass half 
over, the bell for the elevation having just rung. 
As there were only two priests in the town, and 
the second mass was to be at eleven o’clock, I could 
not wait then* but I received the holy communion, 
and went home with no fear of missing mass, as I 
was sure either Mrs. Hope or the housemaid would 
stay at home in the forenoon, and rather go instead 
of me in the afternoon, to oblige me. Accordingly, 
Jessie very willingly agreed to do so. 

I was coming down stairs, on my way to the 
eleven o’clock mass, when I met Mr. Murray. As 


AND Ills ORPHANS. 39 

I stood aside to let him pass, he noticed the hat 
in my hand, and asked where I was going. 

^‘To chapel, sir,” I replied. 

What !” he said. ‘‘Did I not desire you to go 
to the early mass, and allow the others to go out 
at eleven o’clock?” 

“You did, sir,” I said; “but I was too late this 
morning, and as I am bound to hear mass, Jessie 
has kindly agreed to stay at home, and rather go 
out in the afternoon.” 

“I care not whether she has agreed or not,” 
said Mr. Murray; “my orders must be obeyed. 
Vv hether she stays in the house or not, you must 
not go out. If it is against your conscience not to 
hear mass, you will be more careful another time.” 

I went back to my room, and wept bitterly; for, 
from the time I was old enough to attend church, 
I had never before missed hearing mass on a day of 
obligation, and now I had done so, by my own fault. 
As the best reparation I could make, I knelt down 
before the picture of the Virgin Mary* and child, 
and hanging up my rosary and crucifix beside it, 
I opened my Missal, and read over the service of 
mass, offering up my intention in union with that 
of the priest who was then celebrating the divine 
mysteries in the town ; with that of my dear Father 
Drummond, who, I had no doubt, was even then 
remembering me before the altar; and with that of 
every one throughout the world, who was then 


40 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


hearing or saying mass devoutly; I then besought 
our holy Mother to offer up my prayers to her di- 
vine Son, and obtain from him pardon for my fault. 
Although, at the time, I thought Mr. Murray harsh, 
yet, I owe to him, that ever since I have learned 
the lesson, never to put off till to-morrow what 
should be done to-day, especially, when such ne- 
glect might in any way interfere with the duties of 
my religion. 

There was a lad in the service of a gentleman in 
the neighborhood, who often used to come in my 
way, as he also had the care of horses, and we fre- 
quently met when taking them to, water. There 
was something very agreeable in his manners, and 
they particularly took my fancy, because they re- 
minded me of the free, open, and careless gaiety 
that distinguished Dick, before he went to be a 
sailor; but, still, I rather discouraged his advances, 
for Mrs. Hope had warned me that he was an idle 
lad, who would teach me no good. 

One evening, Mrs. Hope told me, that she had 
been invited out to tea, at the house of a tradesman 
who served us, and that she had got leave from Mr. 
Murray to take me with her. I was rather sur- 
prised, on entering the room, to find Ned Burns 
there before me, and still more so, when I saw what 
a favorite he seemed to be with every one. He 
was the life of the party; took care of everybody, 
handing about tea and cakes, and afterwards pro- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


41 


viding amusement, teaching us games, and every 
now and then, singing in a manner which I thought 
beautiful. As for Mrs. Hope, who had never 
spoken to him before,' she was quite delighted, and, 
when on coming away, he accompanied us to our 
own door, she said he was one of the nicest lads 
she had ever seen, and that she thought those who 
gave him the character for being idle, had better 
look to themselves. 

From this time I used to see Ned every day, and 
as Mrs. Hope no longer made objection to our being 
intimate, I found him too agreeable not to enjoy 
bis society. He offered to teach me to play on the 
flute, and until I could buy one for myself, to let 
me practise on his; and he promised when I could 
play a little, he would get me elected a member of 
a musical club, where he had great influence. 
^‘But in that case,’^ he said, you’ll need to make 
interest with the old lady, to say nothing to Mr. 
Murray about your staying out at night.” 

Indeed,” I replied, I should be very sorry to 
do so without his knowledge.” 

^^What fun!” he cried; “do you really mean to 
say you are so scrupulous? Well, in that case, I 
am afraid I can do nothing for you; or perhaps,” 
he continued, laughing, “you think you will get 
Mr. Murray’s leave to attend the club twice a 
week.” 

“Why not?” I replied; “Mr. Murray would not 
4 * 


42 


PATHER DRUMMOND 


like me to waste my time, but when he knows that 
I only wish to join the club in order to improve 
myself, I dare say, he will make no objection.’^ 

At this speech, Ned was seized with a most vio- 
lent fit of laughter, in which I at first joined, though 
I did not know why; but when he continued, and 
his laughter became more and more uncontrollable, 
I became angry. 

“You seem easily amused,” I said, “but as 1 
ffear I am but dull company, not having the wit to 
see the joke, I shall leave you;” and I prepared to 
quit his stable where this conversation had passed. 

“Stop, stop, my dear Pat,” he cried, trying to 
control himself, though he still held his sides, “ you 
must not be so easily huffed, I did not mean to 
offend you; but really, I could not help laughing. 
And, now, to show you are friends with me again, 
promise to ask leave to go out next Tuesday, and 
I will take you to the practising for our annual 
concert. You see you have converted me, don't 
you hear, I say, ^ask leaveV” and here he took 
another fit of laughing. 

Though not more than half pleased with him, I 
thought it would look sulky to refuse, and, besides, 
I had a great curiosity to go to the practising, of 
which he had often spoken, though he always said, 
it was difficult to get admission for a stranger. 

As soon as I got home, T told Mrs. Hope of the 
invitation I had received, and she promised to get 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


43 


leave for me from Mr. Murray. Accordingly, on 
Tuesday night, I was quite ready when Ned called 
for me to accompany him. 

The practising was to take place in the large 
room of a public-house, called the Three Highland- 
men. When we entered, a good many of the 
performers were assembled, and Ned introduced 
me to several; but when they were about to begin, 
as he would be engaged playing, he particularly 
recommended me to the care of a Mr. M^Evoy, 
who, he said, would tell me the name of every song. 

Mr. M’Evoy was a thin, pale, elderly man, 
dressed in a seedy suit of black, with watery eyes, 
and a red nose. I did not much like his look at 
first, but he was very kind in explaining every 
thing to me; and, as I was very fond of music, I 
enjoyed the evening exceedingly. 

When the music was finished, I looked round 
for Ned to come away; but on my asking him if 
he were ready — Ready!’’ he cried; ^^why, man, 
the fun has not begun yet — we are going to have 
supper.” 

‘‘Then I am sorry to leave you,” I said; “for 
I know they expect me not to be out late.” 

“ Did they fix you to an hour, then ?” asked Ned. 

“No,” I replied; “but Mrs. Hope likes to go to 
bed early, and I know she will sit up for me.” 

“ And are you really so simple as not to have 
got a pass-key for yourself?” he cried. “Rut if 


44 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


you are determined to go, I shall say no more, and 
I will do my best to excuse you to the others, who 
may think it shabby to come and get all the good 
of our music, without even standing treat for one 
glass after it/^ 

The last words had effect; I could not bear the 
idea of being called shabby, and I gave up my good 
resolution. However, I gave Ned warning not to 
ask me to drink, as I never took ardent spirits. I 
thought, as he turned away, that it was to hide a 
smile ; but he said nothing. 

At supper I was placed between Ned and Mr. 
M’Evoy; and as most of the company were busy 
enjoying the good things, it was not remarked that 
1 took nothing but water; but when the dishes were 
removed, and tumblers with hot water brought in, 
it seemed to give great offence that I passed the 
spirit-bottle without helping myself. 

Fill up your glass, Mr. Whelan,” cried the 
president; “that is againt the law.” 

“You must excuse my friend,” said Ned, “he 
is a total-abstinence man.” 

This seemed to be considered a good joke, to 
judge by the peals of laughter that succeeded Ned’s 
speech, and by the number of witty remarks it 
produced. 

Meanwhile, I sat burning with indignation, and, 
I must say, with shame also ; but I happily thought 
of asking the assistance of the Blessed Virgin to 


AND nis OUPHANS. 


45 


withstand the temptation, and she enabled me to 
do so. 

I stood up. A speech — a speech !” they cried . 

A speech on the temperance movement but in 
a few minutes order was restored, and I began. 

Gentlemen,’^ I said, ‘‘there are reasons which 
prevent me joining in your conviviality, but I hope 
you will allow me to contribute to it in another 
way; and on my way down stairs I shall make ar- 
rangements with the landlord for doing so. I wish 
you all a good night, with many thanks for the 
entertainment you have afforded me.^' So saying, 
I took my hat, and walked towards the door. 

A loud murmur of dissatisfaction arose, but I 
did not heed it, and walked down stairs, though 
with a swelling heart. Mr. M’E voy followed, trying 
to persuade me to return ; but I would not, and 
only got quit of him by begging him to arrange 
with the landlord for my contribution to the feast. 

I had only gone a little way from the door when 
I heard a voice calling after me. It was M’Evoy, 
“ Here is your change,” he said, taking my arm ; 
“you are not so prudent in looking after your money 
as you are in other respects. But don’t think I 
join with these foolish lads in laughing at your tem- 
perance; on the contrary, I honor you for it. How 
few young men are able thus to withstand tempta- 
tion ! I knew one very unhappy instance of the 
evils of the fatal vice of drunkenness, and it oc- 


46 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


curred to a young man not unlike you, and — let 
me see, your name is Patrick Whelan — of your 
name also. Is it possible you are any relation V’ 

I replied, in a voice choked with tears, that he 
probably alluded to my father. 

“Your father!’^ he said, squeezing my hand. 
“My dear boy, that accounts for the interest I felt 
in you the moment I saw you. Patrick, I loved 
your father, though I saw and mourned for his faults ; 
but T am happy to see that his son is avoiding them. 
My dear boy, thank God I have met you ; there are 
so many other temptations to which you will be 
exposed, and against which I can warn you. Always 
look on me as a friend, Patrick. I shall come and 
see you to-morrow.’’ So saying, as we had arrived 
at Mr. IMurray’s door, he wished me good night. 

Without giving Mrs. Hope the account of the 
entertainment she expected, I pleaded with truth 
that I was not very well, and went to bed, though 
I lay long awake, thinking over the events of the 
day. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


47 


CHAPTER VIL 


“ Care for us ! True indeed — they ne’er cared for us yet. 
Suffer us to famish and their storehouses crammed with 
grain,' make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal 
daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and 
provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain 
the iX)or. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s 
all the love they bear us.” 

Shakespeare. 


The next morning early I was engaged in the 
stable, when I was surprised by a knock at the door j 
on opening it T found M’Evoy. 

‘^Good morning, my dear Patrick,’^ he said. 
^^Do not be surprised at this early visit, for I have 
a great deal to say to you. When I left you last 
night, I went back to the Three Highlandmen, 
where they were still drinking, and I heard them 
talking about .you. Some said your temperance 
was all a pretence, to curry favor with your master 
and the housekeeper, while others thought you were 
sincere at present, but that you would not hold out 
long. Among the last was your friend Ned Burns, 
and I have come particularly to warn you against 
him, as he has laid a bet with some of the others 
that he will make you drunk within a month.^^ 

! I must say I felt very indignant at this informa- 
! tion ; yet, though I could not deny that my being 


48 


FATHER DRUM3I0ND 


aware of such a scheme would materially assist me 
in counteracting it, I did not at all like the manner 
in which I had gained the information, and my na- 
tural prejudice against M’Evoy was not lessene<l 
by his having played the spy on my account 3 still 
he meant kindly, and he had known my father, 
so I thanked him for the warning, and said nothing 
more. 

^^Then you will avoid that lad — will you not, 
m3' dear boy?” he said. 

What you tell me gives me no great inducement 
to seek his company,” I replied; ^^but he has hith- 
erto been kind to me.” 

How like your father !” he cried. “ With such 
a heart kindness can do aD3'thing, but to tyrants 
and oppressors you never would submit.” 

I replied that happily I had no cause to com- 
plain. 

Yes, yes,” he said, ‘^you are right so far; you 
get enough to eat and drink, and are treated with 
no glaring injustice; but tell me, is it right that 
one man should slave for another day after da}*, 
receiving from him a mere pittance, while the other 
sits in idleness and luxury, spending on himself 
what he should share with the first?” 

“You state an extreme case,” I replied; “but 
one with which I have nothing to do. I am wil- 
ling to labor in the state of life in which God has 
pleased to place me; T have not too much to do, 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


49 


SO I cannot be said to slave, and I receive the wa- 
ges for which I asked; as for my master, he is nei- 
ther idle nor luxurious, and instead of spending 
much on himself, he gives freely to the poor.’^ 

“Why, how hotly you take a thing up,’^ said 
M'Evoy, smiling. “Did I call your master a ty- 
rant, that you defend him so briskly?’’ 

I certainly could not say that he had expressly 
done so. 

“Well, well, my dear boy,” he continued, “if 
1 do not attack your friends, you cannot blame 
me for speaking ill of those who do the things that 
you say your master does not do. But some other 
day we must have a little more conversation on 
the rights of man. Meanwhile, tell me can you 
play at cards?” 

“No,” I replied. 

“That is a pity,” he said; “for Ned and his 
companions will be sure to inveigle you into play- 
ing, and if you do not know the principles of the 
game, you will certainly lose. I must give you 
some lessons. Let me see — are you busy now?” 

“Yes,” I said; “I must get breakfast, and im- 
mediately after, go out with Mr. Murray.” 

“Well, well,” he said; “good-bye; but remem- 
ber the first warning I gave you, and be sure also 
never to play until I have taught you how to do 
it.” 

T readily promised this, and he went away. 

5 


60 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


As I was taking the horses round to the stable, 
after having ridden with Mr. Murray, I met Ned. 
He accosted me as usual, and began to joke me 
about my temperance the ’preceding evening. As 
M’Evoy’s warning had not been given as a secret, 
I thought it best to allude to the subject at once, 
and replied — 

“ From what I hear, it will not be your fault, if 
I do not become a drunkard.’’ 

^‘So you have heard of the bet? Well, well, 
man, it is hut a joke, and you need not think I 
wish you to be a drunkard, because I wanted you 
to have a spree for once.” 

‘‘Were I to lose ray self-respect once,” I replied, 
“ there would be little to keep me from going far- 
ther.” 

Ned, who really was a kind-hearted lad, seemed 
surprised, and said, “I had no idea, Pat, that you 
looked upon it in that light; and I promise you to 
give up the bet at once; though, indeed,” he con- 
continued, laughing, “ I should have no chance of 
gaining, now you are warned. I suppose it was 
that old fox, M’Evoy, that blabbed ?” 

I was silent. 

“Well, well,” said Ned, “don’t tell unless you 
like; but I bear him no ill-will for it. All I say 
to you is, take care of yourself, if he take a fancy 
to you.” 

“I think,” said I, “it would be better not to 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


51 


introduce me to acquaintances at night, against 
whom you think it necessary to warn me next 
morning/^ 

“Lord bless me,^^ cried Ned, “do you really 
think I look after the characters of all the people 
that go to the Three Highlandmen ? I assure you 
Tve enough to do taking care of myself. But how 
desperately cross you are to-day. Come, ITl help 
you to rub down the horses, and then weTl have a 
game at cards.^^ 

These words rather renewed my confidence in 
M’Evoy, as they showed me on this point, he was 
correct. “ I have never learned to play,^^ I said 
coldly. 

“Well, ril teach you,’^ answered he. 

Thank you,^^ said I, “Tve already got the 
promise of being taught.^' 

“From M’Evoy, Fll swear,’^ cried Ned, laugh- 
ing; “Pat, Pat, you^re done for. Well, well, 
since you wonT take my help, nor play with me 
either, ITl be off.^^ 

“A fine set of companions, Pve got,^^ thought 
I, “ when each one of them warns me against the 
other.’^ 

A few days after, I got an inyitationfrom M'Evoy 
to walk into the country with him; and as I did 
not know whether Mr. Murray was going to ride 
or not, I went to ask him. 

“ You want to walk into the country with a 


52 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


friend?” he said; ^^you had better be careful how 
you choose your friends; you do not seem to be 
long in forming such ties. However, from your 
conduct at the club a few evenings ago, I think I 
may trust you. You may go, and if you are back 
before dusk it will do.” 

How Mr. Murray knew what had occurred, I do 
not know to this day; but the longer I was with 
him, the more I saw Mrs. Hope was correct when 
she said, nothing seemed to happen without his 
hearing of it. 

As I walked along with M’Evoy, he talked on 
a great variety of subjects; but everything he said 
had a tendency to make me very well pleased with 
myself, it is true, but discontented with my situa- 
tion. As we passed by the grounds of a rich pro- 
prietor — ‘‘There,” he said, “lives a man, who, 
without a single title, either in mind or body, to 
our respect, because he possesses a little more of 
that wealth, to which he is no more entitled than 
we are, thinks he may look down on, and treat with 
contempt, men infinitely superior to himself.” 

“Do you mean,” asked I, “to say that he made 
his money in an unfair way ?” 

“If he had had. the wit to make his money in 
anyway,” replied M’Evoy, “he would be more 
worthy of having it than he now is. No, no, with- 
out a single claim, he received it all from his fa- 
ther, who was just such another as himself. Now, 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


53 


what right have such men to roll in luxury while 
others are starving? I am an old man myself, but 
how can you, Pat, young, handsome, and talented, 
as you are, think of such things without your blood 
boiling at the injustice ?’^ 

I confess that his flattery had so far effect that 
I replied but coldly, that I was contented as I was. 

he said, that is the evil; you are con- 
tented, or imagine yourself to be so, when, by a 
little exertion, you could assume your proper place. 
Listen to me; men are all born equal, and equal 
they should remain, unless raised above their fel- 
low-men by their own qualities; because one man 
has distinguished himself, must his children, asses 
and idiots though they be, fill the same situation 
that he did? The thing is absurd.^’ 

Though I felt that this reasoning of M’Evoy 
was subversive of all order, I could not arrange 
my thoughts into words, before he continued — 
^^But it shall not always be so! The day will 
come, and soon too, when such as these , shall be. 
pulled down from their high places, and when the 
poor shall have their share of the good things of 
the land. No more oppression — no more taxes, 
grinding us to the earth that kings and queens, 
forsooth, with their noble trains, may luxuriate in 
idleness; then those only who make money shall 
spend it — then we shall really be freeT^ 

By degrees, M’Evoy explained to me, that ho 
5 * 


54 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


was a member of a society whose branches ex- 
tended over the whole country. At first I could 
not exactly understand what were the objects of 
so powerful a combination. But as M’Evoy saw I 
had been somewhat startled by the expressions he 
had at first made use of, he softened them down, 
and told me all that they wanted was to secure 
better treatment for the poor. He said, the work- 
ing classes were the greater proportion of the na- 
tion, and that, therefore, they were the most im- 
portant part, and ought to be first considered; but 
that unless they showed their strength by com- 
bining together, there would be no chance of wring- 
ing out justice from the government. 

^^But tell me, exactly,^' I said, ^‘what changes 
you want.” 

^Hn the first place,” he replied, would have 
a fixed rate of wages for all kinds of workmen, so 
that when bread rises in price, wages shall not fall 
at the same time. I would have taxes taken off 
the necessaries of life, and let the rich pay them 
for their luxuries, if they like. I would do away 
with sinecures and pensions, and have no more 
patronage, letting every post be open to the man 
that is best fitted for it. Lastly, I would melt 
down some of their overgrown fortunes, and give 
to those who need.” 

“This is all very well,” said I, “but how will 
you manage these things ?” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


55 


I cannot now remember all that M’Evoy replied 
to this question; for to tell the truth, I did not 
very clearly understand him. He said a great deal 
about the rights of the people, and the voice of 
the people, and a stake in the nation, but in the 
end, I was not much wiser than at the beginning. 
I thought all the changes he proposed would be 
very good, if brought about in a fair way, but I 
did not comprehend how that could be, and I never 
thought any other was meant. 

By this time we had walked a long way; and, 
as we came near a little country inn, M’Evoy pro- 
posed that we should dine there, and return in the 
cool of the evening. I had no objection, as I had 
got leave to stay out, and was rather tired; so we 
went in and asked what they had. The landlord 
seemed to be acquainted with M’Evoy, addressing 
him by his name, and asking if he would dine at 
the bar, or in a private room. I would have pre- 
ferred the first, as being less expensive, but M’Evoy 
at once replied, in a private room; he also gave 
particular directions about dinner, which he ordered 
in very good style. 

^^And, of course you’ll have a bottle of Farin- 
tosh, Mr. M’Evoy asked the landlord. 

“No/’ he replied, “I don’t care about such 
things; and as my young friend does not drink, I 
won’t increase his expense on my account.” 

* I thought the landlord grinned when he heard 


56 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


this speech, and I begged M’Evoy not to abstain 
on my account, as 1 should be glad to see him drink, 
though I did not join; but I thought if he were too 
delicate to let me pay for what he drank, he could 
easily have managed it, by getting in a separate bill. 

After dinner, M’Evoy got hot water and a tum- 
bler, and. made toddy for himself, but he seemed 
very anxious that I should taste a little drop. 
When, however, he found I was determined, he 
gave over pressing me, and proposed as it was dull 
for me sitting doing nothing, that he should teach 
me the game at cards he had promised. I readily 
assented, and the landlord having provided us with 
a pack, we began. 

I found the principles of the game very easy, 
and M'Evoy paid me many compliments upon my 
quickness in learning. He proposed after a little, 
to play for sixpence, and I gained two games from 
him, when I would have stopped, only he asked 
for his revenge. 

Suppose we play to see who shall settle the 
reckoning?” he said. 

I agreed, and we played a game which I lost. 
M’Evoy went out to tell the landlord to make up 
our bill, but came back in a minute, saying he was 
afraid we should have to wait a while, as there was 
a carriage at the door, and every one seemed busy. 
He sauntered about a little — poured out a little 
more of th^ whiskey, of which I thought he had 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


57 


already drank a prodigious quantity, thongli be 
did not seem to feel it at all, and at last proposed 
we should have another game, to while away the 
time of waiting. 

Though I was quite tired of cards, as he seemed 
anxious, I did not like to refuse, and we sat down 
again. For the second time I lost, and then 
M’Evoy seemed satisfied; for he said he had been 
afraid that I was going to be a much better player 
than himself, and as yet we were equal. Just 
then the landlord brought in the bill, which came 
to six shillings, including the whiskey. Before 
putting up my money, after paying him, I asked 
M’Evoy what I was due for the last game, taking 
out sixpence, as I thought we had returned to the 
old stake. I don’t know if he saw what I was 
going to give him, but he replied, Double or quits; 
was it not ? Let me see : what is the bill ? Six shil- 
lings. Well, that is twelve shillings you are owing. 
Never mind just now, my dear fellow; if you have 
not got it with you, I can get it to-morrow.” 

I was a little astonished at this, as I was not 
aware any sum had been fixed, but I said nothing. 
We walked home, where we arrived just in tihae, 
and before M’Evoy left me, I paid him what I 
owed; and though to many of my readers my ex- 
penses this day may seem very insignificant, yet, 
to a lad in his first service, with of course small 
wages, it appeared to be no trifling amount. 


58 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


CHAPTEE VIII. 

“ But times and things are altered now : and Englishmen 
begin 

To class the beggar with the knave, an^d poverty with sin ; 
We shut them up from tree and flower, and from the blessed 
sun ; 

We tear in twain the hearts that God in wedlock had made 
one.” 

Neale. 

l^ROM this time I saw M^Evoy constantly; and 
though I had no particular pleasure in his society, 
yet from his frequent allusions to having known 
my father, and other causes, he gradually gained 
a considerable influence over me. Insensibly, I 
agreed to many of his opinions; so far, at least, 
that I listened to him with considerable pleasure, 
when he talked of the equality of men, &c; and 
several times I accompanied him to hear speeches 
from men in our own rank of life, on the same kind 
of subjects. Certainly there is no eloquence to be 
compared with that of a man whose heart and soul 
are»engaged in the cause he advocates; and conse- 
quently, the words of M’Evoy’s companions, rude 
and unpolished as they often were, made the great- 
est impression upon me. They spoke of the in- 
justice with which the poor were treated — said 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


59 


that they were regarded as a distinct race from 
their richer brethren — they told how the honest, 
independent tradesman or laborer in distress had 
no resource but the workhouse, where he was de- 
barred from fresh air and sunshine, where hus- 
band and wife were separated, and where, worst of 
all, his spirit of independence and of hope was 
crushed, where he had nothing to look forward to, 
no chance of retrieving his fortunes by his own ex- 
ertions, unless by again running the risk of letting 
his children starve. Of all these things they spoke 
until my blood boiled, and my heart was wrung; 
but the spirit that actuated me was not a spirit of 
peace, patience, and long suffering; it was one of 
pride, hatred, and discontent; instead of bein^ 
moved to acts of charity, by the consideration of 
the misery of my fellow creatures, my feelings 
were only excited against those whom I thought 
alone to blame. I did not consider that the best 
way for me to remedy the evils of the existing 
state of things, was by attending to myself, by 
being ready to relieve others as far as I was able; 
and instead of abusing those who disregarded their 
poorer brethren, by praying that God might, in 
his own good time soften their hard hearts. I be- 
came not so attentive to the duties of my situation 
as I had formerly been, often staying out later than 
I knew was approved of, and sometimes neglecting 
the work I ought to have done. Mrs. Hope seve- 


60 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


ral times found fault with me, and though my 
master said nothing, his kindly glance never met 
my eye, and the cold stern look became sterner; 
still, as I fell into no positive act of disobedience, 
I never would allow that I was to blame. 

This state of things continued for some little 
time, and though, thank God, I never broke the 
promise I had made to my dear Father Drummond, 
my conduct in other ways was far, far from what 
would have met with his approbation. I became 
very fond of cards, and spent all my leisure time 
that was not taken up with the meetings I attended, 
in playing. I once or twice had taken a game with 
Ned Burns and other lads, but as M’Evoy acquired 
more influence with me, he gradually induced me 
to avoid them, and to play only with him. It is 
strange that though I almost constantly lost, J[ 
never suspected this man of cheating me, for, when- 
ever he saw me inclined to stop, he would, like a 
skilful angler, tempt me on by the bait of one vic- 
tory. At last I was at the end of the money I 
had brought with me from Clearburn, my half- 
year’s wages were not yet due, and I was ashamed 
to ask Mr. Murray for an advance. 

In a state of great agitation, I had just left 
M’Evoy one morning, after having lost to him my 
last sixpence, when I met Ned. He easily saw 
something was the matter with me, and teased me 
till he found out what it was. 


AND Ills ORPHANS. 


61 


suppose/' he asked, you had a little in 
the meanwhile, you’d have a good chance of win- 
ning back enough to keep you till you get your 
wages ?” 

dare say I should,” I replied. 

^‘Well,” he said, “I’m hard up myself just 
now, or I would lend you something; but I don’t 
well know how you are to manage. There is a 
way, to be sure, though as long as you were such 
a saint, I wouldn’t have ventured to speak of it, 
though I can’t say I see any harm in it.” 

“Tell me what it is,” I said, “and let me judge 
for myself.” 

“Why, there are plenty of people will buy corn 
of you.” ' -■ < 

“ What do you mean ?” I said, interrupting him 
fiercely; “I have no corn to sell.” 

“No, but your master has. You can pay it 
back, you know, afterwards, if you win.” 

“And if I lose?” 

“ Why then it’s no great loss to him.” 

Snatching my arm away from Ned who was 
leaning on my shoulder, I set off, running as hard 
as I was able, and never stopped till I was in my 
own room, and at the foot of my picture. In a 
moment I saw to what guilt T had almost been led. 

I felt bitterly Iiow much I was deteriorated since I 
left the care of my father and friend; I confided 
all my grief to my Blessed Mother; and repeating 
6 


62 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


that beautiful prayer of St. Bernard, Remember, 

0 most pious Virgin Mary, &c, I besought her 
with tears to restore me by her intercession to in- 
nocence and happiness. With perfect confidence 

1 begged strength and opportunity to leave those 
bad companions who had been, in a measure, the 
cause of my fallj and after praying long and ear- 
nestly, I went down to the kitchen with a lighter 
heart than I had felt for many weeks. 

‘Ms that you?’^ asked Mrs. Hope. “I thought 
you had been away a pleasurin’ as usual.” 

I longed to tell her that I would henceforth be 
more attentive to my duties at home; but I dis- 
trusted myself, and was silent. 

“You need na trouble to bring round the horses 
the day,” she continued; “Mr. Murray’s no’ want- 
in’ them. But he’ll speak to you himsel’, and 
tell you about the gentleman that was askin’ for 
you.” 

“ A gentleman asking for me 1” I said. ‘‘Who 
can that be ?” 

“Ye ken that best yoursel’,” she replied; “I 
suppose you’ve sae mony gran’ acquaintance you’re 
puzzled amang them a’. But gang to the library — 
Mr. Murray wants ye.” 

Full of curiosity, I went; and Mr. Murray told 
me that he had just had an interview with a gen- 
tleman from the Catholic chapel-house, who de- 
sired to see me there as soon as possible, as he 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


63 


was only passing through the town, and must leave 
the same evening. 

‘‘He desired me not to mention his name/^ 
continued Mr. Murray; “hut from what I see of 
him, a friend like that is one of whom you may 
be proud.” 

I felt my cheek redden — for, from the marked 
tone in which Mr. Murray uttered these words, I 
knew he was thinking of my other companions — 
but I listened in silence while he told me I might 
spend the whole day at the chapel-house if I pleased, 
and then dismissed me. 

I lost no time in hastening into town; and 
though at the chapel house door I did not know 
for whom to ask, the servant at once showed me 
into a room where a tall young man, evidently from 
his dress, a priest, was waiting to receive me. 

For a moment I looked at him as at a stranger; 
the next I was folded in the warm embrace of my 
dear, kind, adopted brother, Tom McDonald. 


64 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ For just experience tells in every soil 

That those who think must govern those who toil, 

And all that freedom’s highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportion’d loads on each.” 

Goldsmith. 

Many were the inquiries that we made of each 
other regarding our circumstances. I found that 
Tom had just returned from abroad, after having 
been ordained priest, and that the bishop, who had 
long wished to have two clergymen at Clearburn, 
had appointed him to assist his kind old friend. 
Before settling, however, he had gone to visit some 
friends in the north, and he was now on his return 
home, having come considerably out of his way to 
see me. Father Drummond had known his inten- 
tion of visiting me, but had purposely said nothing 
about it in his letters, for fear of giving me a dis- 
appointment, as it was by no means certain that 

Tom would be able to come to A . I cannot 

tell the pleasure it gave me to think that our dear 
father would henceforth be no longer alone^ but 
that his labors would be shared by one of the 
poor orphans whom he had so tenderly cherished 
in their time of need. 

Tom now asked me a great many questions about 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


65 


my situation, employments, &c.; and though even 
to this dear friend of my youth I was ashamed to 
tell the tale of my wanderings, yet I concealed no- 
thing from him. I told him how, until that morn- 
ing, I had every day been getting less attentive, 
less obedient to my master, and more forgetful of 
my God; how the mist had been dispelled, and I 
had seen the precipice on the brink of which I 
stood; how I had prayed to that glorious Virgin 
who never forsakes those who trust in her, to ena- 
ble me to overcome my temptations; and how, at 
that very moment she was preparing for me a guide 
and a friend to whom I could open my heart. 

You are right, my dear Pat,^^ said my brother; 

I have no doubt our holy Mother had granted 
your petition even before it was made, for in hea- 
ven there is neither past nor future. You have 
been in great danger — indeed you still are, though 
by God’s grace and the intercession of the Blessed 
Virgin, I have no doubt you will overcome it 
You yourself now see the evil of neglecting your 
duties in the pursuit of amusement, and I think I 
need say little more to induce you to give up for 
ever your terrible habit of gambling. Though 
you do not seem to suspect it, I have little doubt 
you have been cheated; but even supposing every 
thing was fair, think how miserable and mean is 
such a pursuit. If you win, you may know from 
your own feelings to what distress a fellow creature 
6 # 


66 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


may be reduced by your gain, not to speak of the 
miserable avarice which is almost the sure con- 
sequence of gambling; while, if you lose, you 
have not only the inconvenience you yourself may 
feel, but have deprived the poor and sick of the 
consolation you might have afforded them. Dear 
Pat, remember the lessons of charity taught us in 
our childhood by our good father; give to the poor 
what you would otherwise spend in so unprofitable 
a manner; deny yourself now and then even an 
innocent pleasure for this end, and you will lay up 
a treasure in heaven.’^ 

When I looked at my dear kind brother, as with 
tears in his eyes he repeated the lessons I had so 
often learned in his company, I felt there was no 
sacrifice to which I would not submit, to be once 
more worthy of being counted a son by my dear 
Father Drummond, and a brother by this kind 
friend. 

There is another subject upon which I must 
speak, Pat,’’ he continued. “This society whose 
meetings you have attended — those speeches that 
you have heard, seem to have made a great im- 
pression on you. Now, many things they say may 
perhaps be true enough, for, God knows, I cannot 
deny that the condition of the poor is indeed hard, 
but I deny that such meetings and societies can 
do them any good. On the contrary, a man who 
joins such a society, at once alters his condition 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


67 


for the worse ; he deprives himself of a considera- 
ble portion of time, when he might be either la- 
boring or instructing his family by precept and 
example; he must pay a sum for subscription which 
he can ill spare ; he most likely contracts a habit 
of drinking to complete his ruin, and to a certainty 
he becomes unhappy and discontented with the 
condition in which Grod has placed him. Have 
you not seen such effects yourself 
Certainly I have,’^ I replied. 

^‘But this is not the worsV’ he said; ^^when a 
man begins to talk of equality and the rights of 
men, it is impossible to tell where he may stop. 
With such words have the most fearful revolutions 
commenced, by which the souls and bodies of mil- 
lions have been ruined. May God avert from our 
land such a punishment! My dear Pat, it is not 
the will of God that there should be equality; 
there must be rich and poor. There must be the 
great and powerful, the needy and wretched. Even 
supposing an equality of condition could now be 
established, how long would it last? The strong 
would seize the possessions of the weak, the foolish 
would lose what they had to the cunning, until 
the natural order of things was again restored. 
But oh,’^ he exclaimed, clasping his hands, ^Gf 
men would but consider how blessed are the poor — 
how happy those whose condition was the one cho- 
sen by our Lord, who are like unto him I If this 


68 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


great truth were realized, there would be no more 
envy of those in higher stations. Each one would 
know that his part was to perform the duties re- 
quired from him in the station of life to which Grod 
has called him, without trying to move out of it.” 

^^But,” I asked, ^^do you mean that it is wrong 
for a person to try to rise in the world?” 

^^No,” replied my brother, provided that desire 
be regulated by perfect conformity to the will of 
God; for then a man will neither be too much elated 
by prosperity, nor cast down by adversity. But, 
my dear Pat, you must consult your good and holy 
director on these subjects; he is far better able than 
I am to give you advice; and he may know more 
particulars about the society you speak of, estab- 
lished as it is in the town, than either you or I. 
Besides, I fear you must be wearied with the long 
sermon I have given you, when we have so little 
time to spend together.” 

I assured him I was not, as when he spoke his 
words had on me the same soothing effect that I 
used to feel long, long before, in the happy times 
of our instruction, in the little study at Clearburn. 
But I need not repeat all that passed between us, 
nor the conversation I afterwards had with Mr. 
M^Lellan, my director; it is sufficient that I came 
to the resolution of at once giving up those com- 
panions and habits which had so nearly ruined me, 
and that even when I said farewell to my dear 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


69 


brother, at the coach door, he had the consolation 
of knowing that his own words had already taken 
effect, and that Mr. M’Lellan would not allow the 
good seed he had sown in my bosom to fail from 
want of care. 


CHAPTER X. 

/ 

“ All men are your friends, and no one is to be called an 
enemy ; for they who are angry with you, and who perse- 
cute you, confer a greater benefit on your soul than any you 
could receive from the sweetest friend. All men, therefore, 
confer favors on you ; and besides yourselves, you can have 
no enemy.” — St. Francis of Assisium. 


A SHORT time after the visit I described in my 
last chapter, I was one day engaged in the stable, 
when the door opened, and M’Evoy entered. 

have good news for you,^^ he said; ^^you are 
elected a member, and have only to put down your 
name, and pay the fee to be one of us. I would 
have told you before putting up your name, but I 
have been away for a few days, and when I came 
back last night, I found them all assembled for the 
election of another man ; so I put you in at once.^^ 


70 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


Thank you,” I replied; ^^but I don’t think I 
have enough of spare time for it.” 

^^Oh, never fear!” he said; ‘^you need not at- 
tend any oftener than you have hitherto done when 
I took you.” 

^‘But to tell you the truth,” I answered, more 
boldly, ‘‘1 no longer wish to be a member.” 

^^How?” he said — his face changing. ^‘What 
do you mean? You are not going to desert us?” 

^^As I have never joined, I cannot be said to 
desert,” I replied, ‘^and ray opinions have changed 
since we last spoke on this subject.” 

^^Your opinions are rather versatile, I think,” 
said he, sneeringly; perhaps you will inform me 
of the grounds for this new decision ? I may pos- 
sibly be induced to follow your wise example.” 

I have not sufficient ambition to make a con- 
vert of you, M’Evoy,” I said, ^Ho run the risk of 
an argument; though convinced I am in the right, 
I might come off second best, as j^ou argue well, 
and I do not.” 

You must excuse me if I think but little of a 
cause which you are afraid to defend,” said M’Evoy ; 
^^but doubtless it is your exceeding prudence that 
has been alarmed. You have, I suppose, heard 
the story of the fire.” 

What fire?” I asked. know nothing about 
it.” 

^^Oh, no one knew anything about it,” he re- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


71 


plied; 'Uhat is the mystery. Mr. Campbell, the 
chief proprietor at the other end of the county, 
had his stacks burned down; and as some of our 
members had left his service because he refused 
to give proper wages, they were suspected of 
being at the bottom of it, and we were like to get 
into trouble. I have just been away to prove an 
alibi.” 

Then they were innocent, thank God !” said I. 
But how could that affect the rest of you? You 
could not be to blame for their actions.” 

^^Oh, yes, we might be thought so, for they 
wanted to prove that all the members of that 
branch of the society were act and part. That 
was why I had to go to swear the alibi — not being 
known in that part ef the country as a member.” 

‘‘ How fortunate that you were able to do so !” 
I said. 

A sardonic smile passed over M’Evoy’s face at 
these words, but he quickly regained his usual 
manner. ^‘Well, he said, laughing, “though you 
liave forsaken me in one way, I hope you do not 
mean to do so in another. Let us take a game.” 

“I am sorry I cannot do that either,” I replied. 

“And pray, most exemplary young man, have 
your principles changed on this point also?” said 
M’Evoy, ironically. 

“They have,” I replied, coolly. 

“May I venture to ask the cause?” he said, wiih 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


an affectation of calmness, though his face grew 
white with passion. 

^^It is quite a sufficient reason that I cannot af- 
ford to lose so much/' I replied. 

‘‘To lose so much/' said he, with great fierce- 
ness. “ Had you not your chance of gaining as 
well as I?" 

“ I have always lost a great deal more than ever 
I gained," I said. 

“And whose fault was that, pray?" 

“I blame no one," I replied; “but I do not 
choose to play any more." 

“Do you dare to say I have cheated you? you 
insolent, ungrateful rascal," he said, his frame 
actually quivering with rage. 

It was all I could do to contain myself; but I 
remembered he was an old man, and had been, by 
his own account, at least, the friend of my father; 
so, before trusting myself to reply, I said. a little 
prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary, to beseech her 
assistance in keeping my temper. 

“I have made no accusations, M'Evoy," I then 
said, “and wish to make none; but," I continued, 
opening the stable door, “ I cannot submit to such 
language; have the goodness to go, until you are 
in a better frame of mind !" 

“Until, do you say? you poor, pitiful, mean- 
spirited wretch, Avho have not even courage enough 
to strike a blow for yourself I suppose you are 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 73 

afraid of coming into the hangman’s hands, like 
your father !” 

At this taunt I could no longer contain myself; 
my blood boiled, and I rushed forward to strike 
him ; but even then roy gentle and holy Mother 
whom I had just invoked, interfered to prevent 
me. I had had my right hand in my pocket; as 
I pulled it out hastily, my rosary got entangled 
W'ith it, and in the swinging of my arm, it caught 
upon a nail. The check, though slight, was suffi- 
cient to give me time to reflect; I stopped short, 
and M’Evoy, who was naturally timid, seeing he 
had roused more dangerous passions than he 
thought of, took the opportunity to slink away. 
I instantly locked the door, and falling on my 
knees, again and again kissed the rosary which 
had saved me from giving way to the same 
passion that had caused the unhappy fate of my 
father. 

From this time I scarcely ever saw Mr. M’Evoy, 
even on the street, though I did not the less feel 
the effects of his malice. I soon discovered that he 
had published abroad the unhappy story of my 
father’s death, which had hitherto been unknown 

in the town of A , and it is not likely that he 

mentioned the extenuating circumstances that ac- 
companied his crime. The few respectable people 
whose acquaintance I had made, began to look 
cold on me, concluding, I suppose, very naturally, 
7 


74 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


that the son of a man who died by the hands of the 
executioner, would not have a very high standard 
of morality; even the children on the street, used 
to call after me insulting expressions, and, though 
I several times attempted to put a stop to this, by 
giving one a cujSing, the only etfect it had was, 
that they kept their distance better, without ceas- 
ing to call after me. It is needless to deny, that 
I felt these things painfully, but, I believe, I was 
much the better of them; and thus, unwittingly, 
3rEvoy did me a great service, for I had no longer 
the temptation to frequent bad companions, or to 
make useless errands into the town, which is for a 
young lad a most fruitful source of evil. Although 
I lost favor with others, I regained that place in 
the esteem of my master, and of Mrs. Hope, that 
I had for some time lost; indeed, as they never 
alluded to my father’s death, the only way I found 
out that Mrs. Hope was aware of it, was, by her 
increased kindness and consideration — Mr. Mur- 
ray had been informed of my whole story before 
he engaged me at first. 

Among the others who fortunately for me, kept 
out of my way, was Ned Burns, and, though, 
especially since his proposal about the corn, I was 
well aware, what a bad companion he was for me, 
yet, I was more hurt by his marked avoidance of 
me, than by that of any other person. As he 
lived so near, we were constantly coming in con- 


AND Ills ORPHANS. 


75 


tact, and several times as I was slowly going along, 
taking the horses to water, I had a great sense of 
loneliness, when Ned, and some other lad, would 
come galloping past me, trying races, who should 
be at the water first. Poor Ned ! These races 
did him much mischief; his master had often for- 
bid them for fear of damaging the horses, but Ned 
was too fond of fun to pay attention to his orders, 
and one day forcing a beautiful mare down a hill 
at a gallop, she came down and cut her knees to 
pieces; the same day, Ned was discharged, and he 
left that part of the country. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“ Young, and of an age 
When youth is most attractive, when a light 
Plays round and round, reflected, if I err not. 

From some attendant spirit .... with a look he won 
My favor.” 

Samuel Rogers. 

About this time, we heard some news that 
caused great joy in our household; Master Henry 
was coming home on a visit; I thought Mrs. Hope 


76 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


would have gone wild with delight. "When Mr. 
Murray had read the letter giving the informa- 
tion, he desired me to send her to him, and then 
told her all about it; how Master Henry had sent 
his kind love to his old nurse, and was coming 
back to plague her. When she came again to the 
kitchen, she was crying with joy — ‘^an^ to think 
o’ the dear lamb sendin’ me sic a kind message !” 
she said, “ to think he could plague me though ! 
rd rather hae him to teaze me a’ day, than ony 
body else to cuttle me wi’ dainties!” Though 
Jessie and I, not having known Master Henry 
before, could not be expected to sympathize fully 
with Mrs. Hope’s delight; yet, we had heard so 
much of him, that we also looked forward to his 
arrival with the greatest pleasure. 

At last he came, and even his first appearance 
made my heart warm to him. He was a tall, 
slight, handsome youth, very like his father,” only 
the sweet kind expression that often illuminated 
Mr. Murray’s face, was in Master Henry unmixed 
with anything like sternness. His eyes were 
dark blue, with long black lashes, and their 
joyous light showed the happy and innocent soul 
within ; but though it may seem a contradiction, 
they had also that melancholy, which I have 
sometimes thought portends an early death. 

Mr. Murray did not ride the day his son was 
expected, so I took the horses out myself for a 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


77 


short airing. It was well I did not stay long, for 
there was plenty to do at home; Master Henry 
had arrived in my absence, and Mrs. Hope, after 
receiving his hearty greeting, was sitting in the 
kitchen ciying with joy, and though most anxious 
to do everything herself for ‘Hhe dear bairn,’^ as 
she called him, in her agitation she spoiled every- 
thing she put her hand to. think Td better 
leave ye twa to get the dinner yerseJls;’" she 
said at last, between laughing and crying, ^^an^ 
gang an’ get my greet out, like an’ auld fule as 
I am.” 

As Master Henry had a great many visits to 
pay among the neighboring gentry, with whom 
he was as great a favorite as with everybody else, 
and as Mr. Murray could not make up his mind 
on these occasions to accompany him, I used often 
to ride behind my young master. Sometimes 
when we were crossing the long wild moors, he 
would call me up, and speak to me most kindly, 
asking me many questions about my Father Drum- 
mond, and the young priest whom he had heard 
had been brought up with me, and had come to 
see me at his father’s house. He seemed much 
touched when I told him of the manner in which 
our kind benefactor had adopted us all, when deso- 
late orphans abandoned by the whole world. 

^^He must be a truly good man!” he said on 
one of these occasions. 


78 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


^‘He is, indeed, sir/' I replied, ^^lie is worthy 
of his ealling." 

^^His calling in being a clergyman, I suppose 
you mean," said Master Henry. 

I had never been in the way of beginning the 
subject of religion with any one, and still less 
would I with a superior, for fear of forgetting 
the respect due in our relative situations; but 
when Master Henry said this, I could not resist 
the impulse to reply. 

“Yes, sir; a priest in the One, Holy, Catholic, 
and Apostolic Church." 

Master Henry did not speak for a few minutes. 
At last, he said — 

“ It is a curious thing that there is one great 
and distinguishing difference between Catholics 
and persons of every other denomination. All 
others with whom I have conversed on religion, 
allow the possibility of their being in error on 
many points; while you Catholics always seem 
perfectly satisfied that you are in the right. Now, 
does not this look a little like spiritual pride?" 

“Will you allow me to speak my mind freely, 
sir?" I said. 

“Yes," he replied; “that is what I wish you 
to do." 

“Then, sir," I said, “I think that you would 
be right, if like Protestants, we trusted to our 
own ideas of truth and error; but a man can 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


79 


scarcely be accused of pride in that way, if, as 
every Catholic must he, he is ready to give up any 
opinion, however dear to him, that is not approved 
by the Church. The reason that’ we are so sure of 
being right, is just because we distrust our own 
judgments, which would lead us into error, and 
humbly bow to an infallible authority.’^ 

You are right, Pat,^^ he replied. ^^Such sub- 
mission is not apt to engender spiritual pride ; and 
to feel such security, is certainly a great happiness. 
Would to Grod that I, like you, could believe there 
was any infallible authority to guide us in dis- 
tinguishing between truth and error V’ 

Just then we came to a beautiful road; and 
Master Henry, giving the reins to his horse, can- 
tered off, and never stopped till we arrived at our 
destination. But this was not the only time 
during his stay that he talked to me on religion; 
and when I repeated to him those texts in which 
Jesus Christ promised to build his Church on the 
rock of Peter, and that the gates of hell should 
not prevail against it; also the promise that he 
would be with his apostles ^^all days, even unto 
the consummation of the world,” he seemed much 
struck with their force. 

When the time arrived for Master Henry to re- 
turn to Oxford, I was almost as much grieved as 
Mrs. Hope to part with him, so much had his 
sweet and gentle manners endeared him to my 


80 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


heart. It was arranged that he should take leave 
of his father rather earlier than was necessary, 
and ride on to the house of a friend, to whom he 
had not before had time to say farewell, whence 
he could join the mail. I was to go with him 
to bring back the horses; and thus I had the 
pleasure of being with him longer than any one 
else. 

It was about ten o’clock on a chilly autumnal 
day that I waited at the door with the horses. At 
last, my young master came out. The tears were 
in his eyes; but he wished to conceal them, and 
jumping on his horse without saying a word, he 
galloped off. As I mounted to follow him, I saw 
poor Mrs. Hope at an upper window, stretching 
out as far as she could, that her streaming eyes 
might have the last look of her dear young mas- 
ter; and even Mr. Murray was watching, though, 
when he saw me passing, he shrank back from the 
study window. Master Henry rode on as fast as 
possible, without speaking, until we came close to 
the gate of the house where we were going, when 
he called me up. 

Pat,” he said, I must now say good-bye to 
you for another year; but, before I go, I wish to 
thank you for the good you have done me. I had 
formerly very erroneous ideas of the belief of 
Catholics, and consequently indulged uncharitable 
feelings towards a large proportion of my fellow- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


81 


creatures. You have shown me that on many 
points I have been mistaken; and I feel it my 
duty to learn if I may not be so on more. But 
here we are at the door; so I must stop. God 
bless you, Pat; pray for me sometimes.’^ 

So saying, Master Henry sprang off his horse, 
and, shaking hands with me, ran into the house. 

As I rode homewards, I thought over what he 
had said ; and then, almost for the first time, the 
idea came into my head that Master Henry would 
yet be a Catholic. I resolved to beseech the 
Blessed Mother of God to take him under her pro- 
tection, knowing that if she did so, none could 
resist her. I wrote to Father Drummond and my 
dear Tom, to beg their prayers; and from that 
time I also never missed a day to say a chaplet for 
the same object. 


82 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


CHAPTER XIL 

“ And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved wdien the year its course had rolled, 

And brought blithe Christmas back again, 

"With all his hospitable train. 

Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night ; 

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; 

On Christmas Eve the mass was sung ; 

That only night in all the year 

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.” 

Scott. 

Time passed on, and the joyful Christmas season 
arrived — that season when all Christians should 
rejoice, and welcome into the world their new-born 
Saviour. It was my first Christmas from home, 
and, though very happy in my situation, and treated 
with the greatest kindness, still I longed to be at 
Clearburn for that one day. I longed to go to 
the midnight mass, that would probably be said 
by my kind father, and to receive the Blessed Eu- 
charist once more from his hands. I wondered 
who would sing the high mass the next day; and 
then, as I remembered the rich mellow tones of 
Tom’s voice, I decided that it would certainly be 
he. Then I thought of Nelly — what anxiety she 
would be in, lest the plum-pudding for the dinner 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


83 


of the poor people should be spoiled. I thought 
of the joy and gratitude that these poor people 
would express towards the kind old man who did 
so much to make them happy; and in thinking of 
Christmas, how could I forget that dear child who 
had gone home to the heavenly kingdom on that 
very morning, to live forever with Jesus and his 
holy Mother? How I longed once more to visit 
the little green hillock, overgrown with roses 
and lilies, emblems of modesty and purity, where 
lay the ashes of our little Joe! But it was not 
to be ! 

Though I knew I could not be with my dear 
friends on that day, I determined they should not 
forget me. Since I had received my half year’s 
wages, I had been most careful to spend scarcely 
anything on myself, so that now I had almost all 
left. I kept one pound for anything indispensable 
until my next wages should be due; ten shillings 
I put apart for charitable purposes; and the re- 
mainder I laid out in little presents for Father 
Drummond, his dear assistant, and Nelly. I did 
not forget Dick; but he was at sea, and my pre- 
sent could not reach him at the Christmas time; 
so I sent it to Nelly’s care, to be delivered the very 
first opportunity. I had arranged that all these 
things should reach Clearbum on Christmas Eve, 
so that they should receive them before going to 
the midnight mass. 


84 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


It was Christmas Eve. Mr. Murray had deter- 
mined that I should get out to every service in the 
chapel, as Jessie, being a Presbyterian, had no 
church to go to. I went up to the stable, and 
lighted my lantern, resolving to make all the haste 
in my power with my work, both there and in the 
house, to have plenty of time for the next day, 
and to be able to get to confession before the mid- 
night mass. I was thinking that my friends at 
Clearburn would just then be receiving my parcel, 
and I felt so happy, that as I worked I began sing- 
ing the Adeste Fideles.’^ Mr. Murray had given 
me money to pay for hay and corn; and when I 
had bedded the horses, I opened a box where the 
accounts lay, that I might roll up in each what 
was required for it, to be ready when required. 
Just as I sang ^^Venite adoremus,’^ I thought I 
heard a low tap at the door. I stopped and lis- 
tened — it was repeated; so first putting past the 
money, I went and opened it. What was my sur- 
prise when M’Evoy entered! He did not even 
ask permission, but rushed in, and shutting the 
door, barred and bolted it before he said a word. 
Then turning towards me, he seized my hands, 
squeezed them in spite of my trying to take them 
away, and said, in a voice choking with emotion — 
^‘Do not turn me away, Pat; do not turn me 
away ! It is true I have injured you, even more 
perhaps than you think; but I am an old man—-' 


I 


AND HIS ORriIANS. 85 

a poor, miserable old man — and if you send me 
away, it may cost me my life !” 

What do you mean I said, gently, for I felt 
pity for him, he looked so utterly wretched. 

“They are after me,’^ he said, in a hoarse whis- 
per; “but indeed I am not guilty; that is, not of 
anything deserving hanging; but if they catch me 
they will do it ! Ah ! I feel their horrid fingers 
at my throat!” and the miserable man actually 
shook with fear. 

It was some time before I could exactly discover 
what was the matter. At last I gathered that 
M’Evoy had been engaged in a forgery buiness; 
that is, he had been passing false notes. At first, 
he wished to make me think that he had not been 
aware of the fact; but after a little he not only 
acknowledged it, but even confessed that the com- 
mittee of the society of which I have already spoken 
so much, were implicated in the business. 

Nobody suspects that, though,” he said; “they 
managed too cunningly. But you see, there was 
so much expense from having emissaries all over 
the country, and from many other causes, that they 
had to fall on some plan for making money, and 
that was the easiest. They dare not forsake me 
though — that is one comfort — or I shall turn 
king’s evidence, and betray all. Oh, if I dared go 
to them, I would have no difl&culty in getting off; 
but air my usual haunts are known, and they are 
8 


86 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


watching for me. I would not have ventured 
here, but after all that has passed, nobody will 
suspect me of taking refuge with you.^^ 

As I looked on the wretched man who was sunk 
in- the depths of crime, and who, to save his own 
miserable life, was willing to betray his accom- 
plices, I felt what an escape I had had, and I 
thanked that blessed and holy Mother who had 
delivered me from the snare. 

^‘But what can I do for you?’^ I asked. 

“ Let me stay here a little, till the pursuit is 
over,^^ he said. 

It is impossible,” I replied ; were it my own 
house it would be different; but I dare not run the 
risk of bringing my master into trouble. Is there 
no way for you to leave the town?” 

^‘Not without money,” he said. There is a 
man who would get me smuggled out, but he must 
be well paid for the risk.” 

‘‘ Will thirty shillings do ?” I asked. It is all 
I have.” 

M'Evoy shook his head. 

“Five pounds is the lowest,” he said. “But 
why do you say that is all you have? I dared 
not knock till I made sure you were alone, so I 
looked through the key-hole, and I saw you count- 
ing a whole lot of money.” 

“That is not mine — it belongs to my master,” 
I replied. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


87 


^^But Ido not ask you to give it me/^ he said, 
eagerly; shall have plenty of money for the 

asking it, as soon as I can get to G , or indeed 

to any town where there is a branch of the society. 
They dare not refuse me; and I shall send it all 
back within the week. Mr. Murray won’t ask an 
account of it before that.’’ 

^‘No,” I replied, don’t think he will; but I 
have no right to lend my master’s money, however 
sure I may be of it being repaid.” 

^‘For God’s sake,” said M’Evoy, in terrible 
agitation, ^‘do not refuse me. Think you will 
have to answer for a fellow-creature’s life, because 
of a whim of conscience. Bemember your own 
father — what would you have thought of the man 
who could have saved him so easily, and would 
not?” 

^^Stay,” I cried — ^‘1 have thought on a plan. 
Mr. Murray is kind and generous; let me tell him; 
I am sure he will not refuse.” 

^^Mr. Murray!” he replied, with a bitter laugh; 
^^you might as well give me up to justice at 
once. No, no, your gentry do not approve of 
crime going unpunished; they think no more of 
a man’s life in such a case than that of a fly. 
But oh,” he continued, actually going down on 
his knees, ^^save me, I implore you,, save me by 
all you hold sacred; on this night, when all men, 
however miserable and wicked, may hope, do not 


88 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


condemn me to despair. "By that infant Saviour 
born this night, whom I also was once taught to 
love and adore — by the holy Mother whom I once 
venerated (for I too was a Catholic till my interest 
made me change), do not destroy me, soul and 
body. If I escape this time, I will lead a new 
life ; I will return to my religion, I will follow all 
its precepts. Do you think, had I not known the 
blessedness of that holy faith that teaches us to 
forgive our enemies, and do good to those that 
have injured us, that I would have ventured here? 
In the names then of Jesus and Mary, I beseech 
you, save me ‘ 

I could no longer resist, Jut gave him the money, 
first receiving his solemn promise, that if it should 
be in his power, of which he assured me there was 
no doubt, he would repay it within the week, and 
mentally determining 'that I would rather work 
myself to death than let my master suffer loss on 
his account. In the agitation of the moment I 
thought, could a child of the blessed and holy 
Virgin resist an appeal to her, even from the lips 
of such a man. But I forgot that in no case, how- 
ever urgent the occasion, is it allowably to do evil 
that good may come, v 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


‘ 89 


CHAPTER XIIL 

“Hope that is deferred afiiicteth the soul.'* 

Prov krbs xiii, 12. 

The Christmas week was past, and some of the 
accounts were yet unpaid, for I had heard nothing 
from M'Evoy. I began to get very anxious, and 
very unhappy did I feel each morning as the post- 
man assured me there was no letter for me. One 
morning, as he saw me at a distance, he held up a 
letter, and I ran eagerly to meet him. Alas 1 it 
was from Father Drummond, and the letter of the 
good old man, which at any other time would have 
given me the greatest delight, now caused me a 
bitter disappointment. It was still worse when I 
read the contents, for he thanked me in the name 
of all for the little presents I had sent, and said 
they gave him double pleasure, since they proved 
I had completely forsaken the bad companions by 
whom I had formerly been surrounded, as they 
would not have left me the means to send so 
much. 

do not say, my dear boy,^^ he continued, 
^Uhat you have sent too much, for I cannot find 
fault with the heart that dictated your action, but 
at the ^ame time it is your duty to lay by some- 


FATIIER DRUMMOND 


90 • 

thing, that in case of sickness you might be .able 
to support yourself. I cannot sufficiently express 
my thankfulness to God and his holy Mother, 
that you have escaped the snares of that unhappy 
man, M’Evoy. I have, within a day or two, seen 
an account of the discovery of an extensive system 
of forging in which he was actively engaged; and 
it appears M’Evoy was only an alias; his real 
name was Davison, and he was one of those wicked 
companions who incited your poor father to his 
ruin. I well remember hearing of him, but of 
course as he had changed his name, 1 was unable 
to warn you against him when you first mentioned 
him. On no account, my dear boy, have any thing 
more to do with him. I believe I may say, without 
wanting in charity, that he is capable of any thing; 
he has forsaken his religion, for he once was a 
Catholic, and from that time has gone on sinking 
deeper and deeper into the abyss of crime. But 
to leave this melancholy subject. I am happy to 
say, my dear Pat, that I hear good accounts of you 
from all quarters. I have been so much engaged 
for a long time past, I have found it impossible to 
write to you; but I have something to tell you 
that will, I am sure, give you great pleasure. 
One morning I had a visit from a young gentle- 
man, whose appearance pleased me much; and he 
announced himself to me as your young Master 
Henry. It seems you had said so many fine things 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


91 


of your old friend, that he thought it worth while 
to come a little out of his way to see him. But, 
though he gave that as his reason, I suspected he 
had a much higher object; and your letter which 
I received a few days after, confirmed me in my 
opinion. You are right, my dear boy, in thinking 
there are great hopes of that young man becoming 
a Catholic. His disposition seems remarkably 
fine. He will not, I think, resist grace; and if 
we unweariedly beg our Holy Mother to take him 
under her protection, there is no doubt of the 
result. It will only be from a want of fervor, on 
our parte, in praying for him, if he do not become 
a Catholic.” 

Father Drummond then gave me a little news 
of my old acquaintances at Clearburn, and after 
blessing me in the names of Jesus and of Mary, he 
concluded. 

As may be supposed, this letter did hot diminish 
the anxiety I felt on account of the money I had 
lent M^Evoy. Indeed, I almost gave up all hope 
of getting it back again ; and what happened im- 
mediately after, when I took in Mr. Murray’s 
breakfast, made this stiU more apparent. 

As I went in, Mr. Murray was reading the news- 
papers. 

“Pat,” he said, “what was the name' of that 
man who was so much with you in summer? 
M’Evoy, was it not?” 


92 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


Yes, sir,’’ I replied, my heart sinking. 

^^You have made a great escape in giving him 
up,” he continued. ^‘Here is an account of his 
capture at Glasgow, to which place he had escaped, 
after passing forged notes here. It is said that hs 
intends to betray his accomplices, in hopes of being 
admitted king’s evidence.” 

I could not answer. I became pale as death, 
and took the first opportunity of leaving the room 

The unhappy man was then taken ; and what I 
had done had been of no avail. There was no 
more hope of receiving back the money; and how 
was I to repay Mr. Murray the three pounds tea 
shillings? For a moment, I thought of the last 
words Nelly had said when I left Clearburn, and 
half determined to write, and beg of her to lend 
me the money; but I quickly rejected this idea. 
I could not bear that my friends there should think 
I had inconvenienced myself by the presents I had 
sent them; and besides, it seemed but just that I 
alone should suffer for my fault. I hastened up 
to my room, prayed for a while most earnestly 
before my picture, and came down stairs with the 
determination of confessing every thing to Mr. 
Murray. 

As I went into the study to ask to speak with my 
master alone, my heart almost failed me, he looked 
go cold and grave; but, mentally beseeching my 
Holy Mother for help, I told the whole story. By 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


93 


degrees, Mr. Murray^s countenance relaxed; and 
when I came to the end of my story, though still 
grave, it no longer wore the cold and displeased 
expression it had at first. 

You have relieved my mind from a great fear,” 
he said at last; ^^for, from your appearance when I 
told you of that unhappy man this morning, I 
almost fancied you had some connection with his 
crime. The presents, too expensive considering 
your means, which I happened to know of your 
sending to Clearburn, confirmed me in this opinion ; 
and I am truly glad to find I was mistaken. You 
have, however, done very wrong in making use of 
your master’s property in any way different from 
what he desired; and, though I allow that, to a 
young man of your dispositions — yes, I will say of 
your generous disposition — the temptation was 
great, yet I would be unjust both to you and to 
myself, did I not take your offer of working out 
the sum. Master Henry has written to me to 
make you a Christmas present in his name; and as 
he leaves the amount to me, to show I am other- 
wise satisfied with you, I will count it at twenty 
shillings. . The remaining fifty T shall deduct from 
your next half year’s wages; and the inconvenience 
you may suffer on that account will be a good 
lesson to you. For the present, however, as I 
suppose you have nothing left, I shall advance you 
another pound.” 


94 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


I cannot tell how grateful I was for Mr. Murray^s 
kindness; for, as to deducting the sum from my 
wages, I neither expected nor wished for any thing 
else. But he spoke to me so kindly, that I felt I 
really loved my old master, both on his own 
account, and because he put me in mind of Master 
Henry. My heart was now light, which it had 
not been before, since Christmas Eve; and though 
now and then the remembrance of that wretched 
man damped my joy, yet the thought that by telling 
him the truth I had proved to my master I still 
deserved his confidence, was a consolation for every 
thing. 

Since after this I shall have no more occasion to 
speak of M’Evoy, or Davison, as he should rather 
be called, I shall at once mention his fate. As 
soon as his capture was known, those members of 
the society who were connected with him in the 
forgery made their escape, as was supposed, to 
America; and M'Evoy was tried, and condemned 
to death. His sentence was, however, commuted 
afterwards to transportation for life. As for the 
society, its most influential members being gone, 
it soon fell to pieces; and I believe, by this time, 
scarcely any one remembers its existence. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


95 


CHAPTER Xiy. 

“A golden ring in a swine’s snout, a woman fair and 
foolish.” — Proverbs xi, 22. 

“He that keepeth his mouth, keepeth his soul: but he 
that hath no guard on his speech, shall meet with evil.” — 
Proverbs xiii, 3. 


Among the tradespeople who served Mr. Mur- 
ray, and whose acquaintance I had made, was the 
farmer from whom he took his corn, whose name 
was William Duff. At the time of M^Evoy’s 
quarrel with me, when all the other acquaintances 
I had made in the neighborhood looked cold on me, 
in this family alone I perceived no difference; but 
as I had but little intercourse with them, never 
going to the house except to order corn, and to pay 
accounts, I scarcely observed this. By degrees, 
however, I noticed that Ellen Duff, the farmer’s 
daughter, who, when first I went about the house, 
had seemed to despise me as a raw boy, now took 
much more notice of me; and after M’Evoy’s dis- 
grace, when the tide began to turn in my favor, 
she took every opportunity of talking to me. As 
she was a tall, fine-looking girl, and much admired 
and sought after by the young men of the neigh- 
borhood, my vanity was quite flattered by this; 
and being very clever it is not surprising that she 


96 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


soon gained considerable influence over me. By 
degrees I began to visit the house, which was only 
about half-a-mile from Mr. Murray’s, at other times 
than when I had a message; and as Ellen’s influ- 
ence over me increased, I gradually came to spend 
almost all my spare time there. It might be sup- 
posed that her father would disapprove of my 
coming so much about the house; but he was very 
proud of his daughter, and pleased at the admira- 
tion she excited ; and as many others visited them 
also, perhaps he did not think she showed any 
particular favor to me. Even if he did, however, 
Ellen had been too much accustomed all her life to 
have her own way, to be easily controlled now. 

One thing I believe that made Ellen take so 
much notice of me, was, that I had received a 
better education than the other lads who came 
about. She herself, when quite a child, had been 
taken to London by an aunt who was married to a 
rich tradesman there, and put to school. Until 
she was sixteen, her time had been spent between 
the boarding-school and her aunt’s house, and as 
her relative had no children of her own, she made 
Ellen a great pet. It is probable she would always 
have continued in London had not her aunt’s hus- 
band found his business declining, and determined 
to go to Australia, when Ellen returned to her 
father’s house. Her mother had long been dead, 
so consequently, she was immediately installed 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


97 


mistress of the farm. At the time I became ac- 
quainted with her, she had been home just a year, 
and though fond of the admiration she excited 
among the young men, she used to laugh at them 
all when they were not present, calling them a set 
of boors. 

As Mr. Murray lived so retired, there were a 
great many absurd reports used to go about, re- 
garding the arrangements of his house, and I had 
frequently been asked questions about them by 
Ned Burns and other people. As, however, they 
openly expressed their curiosity to know all about 
the house, I was on my guard with them, and 
would not talk on the subject at all. With Ellen 
Duff it was different; she never broadly asked me 
questions, but in the course of conversation she 
would often lead me on to mention little things, 
and with the feelings I was beginning to have for 
her, I saw no harm in it. For example, one night, 
when pressing me to stay to supper, she said — 

^^Come, Pat, don^t be obstinate; you know you 
only want to go, for fear we think you are starved 
at home ; every body says you are.^^ 

“ Then every body is mistaken, Ellen,” I said ; 
^^and I wonder you would listen to such idle tales.” 

^^Dear me, how can I help listening to them 
when they are constantly told before me? and as 
you are so often here, they suppose I would be 
able to contradict them if they were not true. 


98 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


They do say that Mr. Murray grudges you the 
butchers^ meat, and keeps you always on fish, on 
pretence of your being a Catholic.^^ 

“How can you believe such nonsense, Ellen 
I said, r.ather vexed. “ Mr. Murray is a kind mas- 
ter, and grudges his servants nothing that is rea- 
sonable; but you know well enough that I am 
bound to take fish on Fridays, and sometimes at 
other times also, as every Catholic ought ; on other 
days I am as well fed as my master.^^ 

“Well, though he chooses to starve, that is no 
reason why he should make you do so.^' 

“Have I not told you that whoever has got up 
the story of starvation, has told you a lie ? Hear 
Ellen, why do you not believe me ? I get as much 
excellent food as is good for me, or as I desire — 
I hope you do not consider me such a glutton as 
to want more ; but even if this ridiculous accusa- 
tion were true, Mr. Murray would not be to blame, 
as he never interferes in these arrangements, but 
leaves everything to Mrs. Hope.^^ 

Nothing else passed on this occasion, and I 
thought no more of the subject till I again heard 
of it, about a week after, in the following way. 

Mrs. Hope had one day gone into market, and 
as I met her on her way back, I was going to take 
her basket and carry it home, as I had often done 
before; but to my surprise she coldly refused me. 
Not minding this much, I walked home alongside 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


99 


of her, talking and laughing, but I could scarcely 
get a word from her. It was evident she was dis- 
pleased with me for something, but I had no idea 
what; so at last I said to her — 

Have I displeased you in any way, Mrs. Hope V* 

'^Oh no,’’ she said, stiffly; ^^what for should I 
be displeased at ony thing ye do or say ? Ye can 
gang your gait, an’ I’ll gang mine.” 

^‘ But, dear Mrs. Hope,” I said, ^Hell me what 
is the matter. I do not know of anything I have 
done, and at any rate, I am sure it was uninten- 
tional.” 

^^Nae doot,” she replied; be sure ye think 
ye canna do or say wrang, though your tongue 
wad clip clouts. But I’m ower weel kent to be 
the waur o’ you; sae I’ll e’en jouk an’ let the 
jaw gae by. Na, na, ye’ll be kent for what ye 
are, an’ I’ll get ower ’t.” 

^^Do explain this,” I said. ^^Is it possible you 
think I have said anything unkind of you. Upon 
my word I never have. How could I, indeed? 
You have never given me cause, but have always 
shown me the greatest kindness.” 

I think she was a little mollified at this. 

^^Weel, I’m sure I wad hae thocht sae,” she 
said, ^^for it’s no’ in my nature to be cruel, even 
to the brute beasts that perish, as that puir cat 
that lies amang the mould o’ the garden might 
tell, let alane human bein’s like mysel’. I’m sure 


100 


FATHER DRUM3IOND 


puir Bawdrins ne^er wanted her saucer fu’ o’ milk, 
mornin’ nor night.” 

What connection the dead cat had with my of- 
fence, I could not imagine, and while considering, 
I dare say I looked very stupid, for Mrs. Hope 
said — 

What for are you screwin’ up your mou’ there 
like a Noroway muscle? I’ll no’ bear ye malice 
for what’s gane; I’m sure I’ll aye be fair gude e’en 
an’ fair good day wi’ ye.” 

“Dear Mrs. Hope,” I said, “do tell me at once 
what I have done; for really I have not the slight- 
est idea of it, or what in the world the cat has to 
do with me.” 

“I ne’er said the cat had onything a do wi’ 
you,” she said; “but I said puir Bawdrins could 
hae telt that I ne’er starved onybody, though you 
wi’ your lang tongue that ’ll ne’er sair twa heads, 
say that I do.” 

“ Say that you starve us !” I repeated, in aston- 
ishment — “I never in my life said such a thing; 
and if I had, it would have been an abominable 
and ungrateful lie.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hope, “Mrs. Turner, the gro- 
cer’s wife, got it frae ane that had it frae the ane 
ye said it to ! An’ as if that was na eneuch, ye 
said Mr. Murray did na ken aboot it; sae I sup- 
pose I get the credit for pittin’ the money that 
suld feed ye into my pocket !” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


101 


I never said anything of the kind/^ I repeated, 
getting angry. Who dares to say I did ?’' 

^‘Why, it jist cam frae that lang-Iegged lassie, 
Ellen Duff, that ye^re aye rinnin^ after.'^ 

'‘It is impossible I replied. "Ellen cannot 
have said such a thing. It is true, one night she 
began making fun of me, and saying I was starved; 
but I denied the story out and out.^^ 

"Depend upon ^t, yeVe gi’en her some cause for 
sayin' what she did,'^ said Mrs. Hope. "There’s 
aye water whar the stirkie drowns.” 

Without saying another word, I left Mrs. Hope, 
and set off through the fields to Farmer Duff’s 
house. I found Ellen at home; but there was 
some one with her, a young . haberdasher, whose 
attentions to her had been very disagreeable to me 
before, and I would not go in. I, however, sent 
word to her that I wanted particularly to see her 
for a few minutes; and in a little she came down. 

"How glad I am you have come, Pat!” she 
said; "for father has left me to entertain that 
stupid creature. Primrose. Do come up stairs, and 
help me. But how have you got out at this hour V* 
"I have not come to stop, Ellen; I can’t come 
in. I want to ask if it is true that you have told 
some one that Mrs. Hope starved me without Mr. 
Murray’s knowledge, and put the money in her 
pocket?” 

"Indeed I did not, Pat,” she said, looking fright- 
9 # 


102 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


ened, for she saw I was terribly annoyed. ^^Only 
when Mary Simpson said you were starved at Mr. 
Murray’s, I said if you were, it was not Mr. Murray’s 
fault, for the housekeeper could do what she pleased.’^ 
“And did I not tell you, Ellen, that the whole 
was a lie ? Have not I often said that both Mr. 
Murray and Mrs. Hope are as kind to me as they 
possibly can be ? But you see the consequences of 
your folly. Mrs. Hope has been told all this, and ac- 
tually believes I have been so base and ungrateful.’^ 
“ Oh, Pat,” said Ellen, terrified . “ forgive me. 
Indeed I meant no harm. What do you think I 
should do ? Shall I go back with you, and tell 
Mrs. Hope the truth?” 

“ And leave Mr. Primrose alone ?” I said. 

“ Oh, now you begin to get jealous. I know you 
have forgiven me,” she said, and ran away to put 
on her bonnet, leaving her father, who just then 
came in, to entertain the haberdasher. 

When Ellen, with tears in her eyes, told Mrs. 
Hope the whole story, the latter, in a manner she 
meant to be very kind, but which did not at all 
flatter poor Ellen, said — 

“ Weel, weel, bairn, to be sure I might hae kent 
it wadna be a’ the puir laddie’s fau’t, when his 
words cam through twa glaikit lassies! Ye see 
ye’re just like your neebors, though ye hae had a 
fine Lonnon edication. Send a fule to France, an* 
ye’ll get a fule back again!” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


103 


CHAPTEE XV. 

“I saw thee change, yet still relied, 

Still clung with hope the fonder, 

And thought) though false to all beside. 

From me thou couldst not wander.” 

T. Moore. 

As the summer advanced, I became more and 
more fond of Ellen Duff, till at last it seemed as 
if all my happiness depended on her. When absent 
from her, I thought on every thing as connected 
with her, what she would think of this or that, if 
such a thing would give her pleasure, or if some- 
thing else would annoy her. In short, she was 
seldom out of my mind. But, for all this, I was 
not always happy when in her presence; though 
she certainly, I think, preferred me to every one 
else, yet she was too fond of admiration, to be 
willing wholly to discourage others. There were 
several young farmers who each thought they had 
a share in Ellen’s favor; but it was Primrose, the 
haberdasher, that annoyed me most. Though she 
assured me she could not bear him, she always 
made him welcome ; and if I asked her the reason 
why, she said it was to please her father. 

^^But, Ellen,” I sometimes said, there is a 
difference between receiving him politely, when he 


104 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


comes, as your father’s friend, and pressing him to 
stay to please you.” 

^^La! how jealous you are,” she said. 
would serve you right, if I really were to favor 
Primrose, to teaze you — that would teach you 
patience.” 

“ If I did not think it was mere folly and love 
of fun — if I could dream that you would really 
trifle with me, Ellen ” 

‘^Tut, my dear Pat,” she cried, interrupting me, 
^‘Pm sure you know I like you far better than 
any of them. But you must not be so absurd, 
really. If I were to be uncivil to Primrose, what 
would my father say ? And if he were to ask the 
reason, you know well it would never do to say it 
was to please you.” 

“I don’t want you to be uncivil, Ellen; but 
you really do much more than what mere civility 
requires.” 

^^Well, I’m sure, Pat, when you know that I 
think you a thousand times handsomer and cle- 
verer than he is, you need not be angry because I 
keep the poor creature in good humor.” 

But, spite of all this, the flirtation with Primrose 
went on; and at last it went so far, that I could 
not bear the sight of the man. Her father used 
often to say that Ellen was too young to marry, 
and had time enough to look about her; but to me 
it seemed evident that he regarded Primrose as 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


105 


likely to be her future husband. I became very 
unhappy with Ellen’s conduct; and I had no con- 
solation, for, unfortunately, on that subject I did 
not open my mind to my confessor. I had onco 
hinted something to him about his opinion with 
regard to mixed marriages between Catholics and 
Protestants; and, though he said it was not unlaw- 
ful, he evidently so much disliked the practice, that 
I never had the courage to mention Ellen’s name 
to him. 

The only thing that gave me any consolation was, 
the number of those of whom I felt jealous; for, 
though Primrose was the worst, she often would, 
for a few days, distinguish some other young man 
above his neighbors, until he flattered himself he 
was the favorite. The illusion never continued 
long, however; for, as soon as she saw the least 
appearance of too great confidence, she would cast 
down the poor fellow’s hopes by the most careless 
and contemptuous behaviour. It is true, as soon 
as he was quite disheartened, she would lure him 
back again by a little favor, when, if she found 
him too troublesome, she had only to send him 
some errand, which the poor fellow was only too 
happy to undertake for her sake. 

With me, however, it was different; I think she 
might perhaps have played the same game had 
she thought I would have submitted to it; but she 
knew my temper too well to venture, and as it 


106 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


was only at particular hours that I could get from 
Mr. Murray’s, she managed in general to get quit 
of others before my arrival. Still I saw enough 
to give me great annoyance, and I heard yet more ; 
hut if I spoke it was still the old story, she pre- 
ferred me to them all, but her father would not be 
pleased were she to discourage them. Sometimes 
I begged her to let me speak openly to her father 
at once, but she always seemed frightened, and 
begged I would put off. 

That would only be to make me lose your com- 
pany, Pat,” she would say. ^‘My father cannot 
bear long engagements, and you know you are not 
able to support a, wife just now.” 

About this time Mr. Murray got a letter inform- 
ing him that Master Henry would soon be with us 
again. My young master had been studying too 
hard, and had become unwell; change of air was 
recommended, and he had joined with a friend in 
a little excursion to Belgium, after which he in- 
tended coming home for a short time. The letter 
was dated from Brussels, and they intended return- 
ing to England in a fortnight; and as it had by 
some accident in the post-office, been three weeks 
on the way, we might expect Master Henry almost 
every day. 

It is needless to tell the joy that this news pro- 
duced in the house, for I have so often said already 
how much we loved our young master. As his 


AND HTS ORPHANS. 


107 


arrival was so sudden, there were great prepara- 
tions to be made, and for two days I could not 
find a spare moment to go to see Ellen. Every- 
day Mr. Murray rode to meet the mail, in hopes 
of finding his son, and I went with him to give 
up my horse to Master Henry, in case he were 
there. 

On the afternoon of the third day we set off as 
usual. Just as we were fairly clear of the town, 
we ascended a hill, from which we could see the 
high road winding about for several miles. 

‘^No sign of the coach there yet,’^ said Mr. 
Murray. ‘‘I think if we go at a good pace we 
shall have time to cut across the fields, and come 
out near the river. 

So saying, he set spurs to his horse, and clear- 
ing the hedge, galloped on. We passed close to 
Farmer Huff’s house, and as we passed, I looked 
up at the windows to see if Ellen was there, hut - 
there was no sign of her. On we went, until we 
came to a little rivulet that was in our way ; very 
near it there was a hedge, and a stile which was 
shaded by the bushes growing in the hedge. As 
the horses’ feet clattered over the stones of the 
rivulet, two people, a man and woman, startled by 
the noise, jumped up from the stile where they 
had been sitting. Swiftly as we passed them, I 
recognised Ellen and Primrose, and saw that his 
hand had hold of her’s. At seeing me, her face 


108 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


became quite red, but she turned away, evidently 
hoping I might not recognise her. 

Though 1 had felt jealous before, I had never 
been so bad as now. What in the world had 
induced her to go and walk in the fields with him ? 
nay, to sit down beside him, and allow him to 
take hold of her hand? That certainly was not 
necessary for politeness. The more I thought on 
all this, the more wretched I became, so that when 
we met the mail, even the sight of my dear Master 
Henry’s face could not make me feel happy. ^ 

My young master was looking very well, only 
still paler than before. As I dismounted from the 
horse and held the stirrup for him, he observed 
my appearance. 

“What in the world is the matter with you, 
Pat?” he asked. “You are as pale as ashes !” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Murray, looking at me. 
“Is it possible you have been the worse for our 
quick ride ? I thought you were too good a horse- 
man for that. You had better take Master Henry’s 
place in the coach.” 

I replied that I did not feel very well, but that 
a walk through the fields would do me more good. 

“Very well,” said Master Henry, “take your 
time, and I’ll bear all the blame on my own shoul- 
ders if Mrs. Hope is angry at your being late.” 

Off they set; but instead of taking time, as 
Master Henry recommended, I flew rather than 


AND HIS ORPELANS. 


109 


walked, till I approached the farm. I then slack- 
ened my pace a little, and began to think what I 
had come for. There was no hope that I had been 
mistaken — I had seen Ellen too plainly for that; 
and what excuse could she offer for giving such 
encouragement to a man whom she professed to 
dislike? Still I was determined to see her, and 
walked straight into the parlor, where I found Ellen 
alone. 

At first, when I spoke to her, she looked very 
haughty, as if I had no right to interfere with her 
affairs, till I grew quite sick, as I thought, of the 
duplicity with which I had been treated, and turned 
away to leave the room. As I went out, a faint 
voice called after me, but I was too angry to take 
notice of it, and hurried out of the house. Scarcely, 
however, had I got beyond the gate, than I began 
to frame excuses for her. She is proud-spirited,’^ 
I thought, “and no wonder when I spoke to her 
so sternly, she would not give me any explana- 
tion.” Then I remembered her call after me, and 
almost thiniing I was more in the wrong than she 
was, I turned back again, and re-entered the parlor. 

At first Ellen did not observe me; she was lean- 
ing against the wall, and crying bitterly. 

“Dear, dear Ellen,” I cried, “have I vexed you? 
Is it because of me you are crying so?” 

She was not slow to perceive the advantage she 
had gained. Instead of apologising to me for hav- 
]0 


110 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


ing given me just cause of offence, she first re- 
quired an apology from me for being so unreason- 
able, and then — but not till then — did she give 
me some explanation. 

‘‘I did not go out with Primrose, Pat,^^ she said; 
^‘but he heard I had gone for a walk, and came 
after me, and you know I could not send him back 
alone.^^ 

But why sit down to waste time with him said 
I; “why let him have hold of your hand?’^ 

“Dear me,” she cried, “it is all very well for you 
great strong men to ask why one sits down, but I 
only wish you were a girl yourself, and had taken 
a long walk on a hot day; and as for the hand, I 
caught hold of whatever was next me, when you 
gave me such a fright with the noise of your nasty 
horses.” 

“And was that really all, my own dear Ellen ?” 
I said. “You have made my heart much lighter. 
But before I go, tell me what tempts you to take 
such long walks, and fatigue yourself so; you may 
make yourself quite ill.” 

“Can you not guess any reason?” she said, half 
pouting, and running out of the room. “ What if 
I happened to know that somebody rode every day 
to meet the mail, and that if Mr. Henry came, he 
would perhaps come back through the fields?” 

I went home that evening with a lighter heart 
than I had had for months. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XVL 

“ Oh, the good old times of England ! Ere, in her evil day', 
From their Holy Faith and their ancient rights her people 
fell away. 


Again shall banner, cross, and cope gleam thro’ the incens’d 
aisle ; 

And the faithful dead shall claim their part in the Church’s 
thoughtful prayer, 

And the daily sacrifice to God be duly offered there ; 

And tierce, and nones, and matins, shall have each their 
holy lay ; 

And the Angelus at compline shall sweetly close the day'. 
England of saints! the peace will dawn — but not without 
the fight ; 

So, come the contest when it may — and God defend the 
right!” 

Neale. 

Master Henry now recommenced his rides with 
me behind him; and it was not long before he in- 
troduced the subject of religion once more. He 
told me that while in Belgium he had been much 
struck by the simple faith and devotion of the peo- 
ple, and that he had often thought a religion that 
produced such effects must be a good one. 

^‘1 used to notice with surprise/^ he one day 
said to me, ^^the contrast between the people in 
the manufacturing towns in Belgium, and those in 


112 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


England. In Belgium, if I rose and went out 
about five in the morning, I would find the churches 
half filled with the poor men preparing for the 
labor of the day by hearing mass ; while, in England, 
a great proportion of the same class do not even go 
to church on the Sunday, as it is their only time 
for recreation.’^ 

^^Then do the working people in Belgium not 
rest themselves on Sundays at all, sir I asked. 

Oh, indeed they do,” said Master Henry, smi- 
ling j ^‘they amuse themselves more than would 
be thought right in this country 3 and in consequence, 
I believe Protestants often take up a very false idea 
of the Catholics abroad. Of course, I do not allude 
to the irreligious, from whom one expects no good 
example any where; but even the best people, after 
having spent part of the day in religibus duties, 
think it no sin to amuse themselves in an innocent 
manner afterwards; and I must say, with all my 
prejudices, even from the first it did my heart good 
on the Sunday afternoons to hear thei poor children 
jumping about and laughing as usual, instead of 
sitting dull and miserable, as is too often the case 
in Scotland.” 

“I understand that quite well, sir,” I said; ‘^for 
Father Drummond often explained to us the differ- 
ence between the Protestant and Catholic methods 
of keeping Sunday. He showed us that there was 
no prohibition against innocent amusements, only 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


113 


against work ; and after we had attended to all our 
religious duties in the morning, he used to let us 
play in the garden on the Sunday afternoons. 
However, he always told us to be careful not to 
scandalize those who disapproved of such amuse- 
ments, by unnecessarily forcing them upon their 
notice.’^ 

^^He was quite right,’^ said Master Henry; ^^and 
that is another instance of the charity which must 
always accompany true faith. Do not mistake 
what I say, however; I love and admire all I have 
seen of the Catholic religion; and had I been born 
a Catholic, I never could have changed. At the 
same time, I hope that, in my own Church, I can 
find the same means of perfection. I believe the 
Church of England to be a branch of the Universal 
Church; and though, unfortunately, we are out- 
wardly separated from the great centre of Catholic 
unity, if we hold the faith of our fathers, we still 
remain members of the Catholic Church. Un- 
fortunately, a great proportion of our clergy and 
laity have forgotten the pure doctrine explained to 
them, and carefully preserved by some at the time 
of the falsely-called Reformation in England; but 
there are a few who join with me in deploring this 
falling off, and in hoping that one day we may all 
be united once more.^’ 

On other occasions Master Henry would tell 
me little things that had pleased him during his 
10 * 


114 


FATHER DRUJkIMOND 


visit abroad. Above all things, he seemed to like 
the open churches. 

^^G-o where you will/^ he would say, ^^in the 
crowded city, or in the poor hamlet, if you enter a 
church, you will find some few worshippers before 
the altar. The weak come there for strength, the 
strong for perseverance, the poor and miserable 
for succor and comfort — all come to the feet of 
their Saviour — all open their hearts, and pour out 
their griefs in the bosom of Him who is indeed to 
them a well-beloved Father.” 

England,” would he say at another time, ^^will 
never recover her former happiness, until her poor 
children find out that a Comforter waits upon their 
altars ready to hear their cries, to redress their 
grievances, to be their spiritual food and sus- 
tenance, their Grod, their Father, their all. Oh, 
why have we not a daily sacrifice? Why do we 
not frequently receive the most precious body and 
blood of our Redeemer ? Why are we so cold, so 
tepid, when such burning love waits on us, be- 
seeching us to receive him into our hearts ?” 

From these, and similar expressions, it was evi- 
dent to me. that Master Henry was a convert to one 
doctrine, which is generally the greatest stumbling- 
block to Protestants. I mean that of the real 
presence of our Lord in the most blessed Eucharist. 
But how he could believe, as it was evident he did, 
that in the English Church the power of conse- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


115 


crating the bread and wine was also to be found, 
I could not in the least comprehend. Though I 
knew Protestantism had split into innumerable 
sects, I was simple enough to believe that the 
clergy, at least, of each sect would agree among 
themselves; and the only clergyman of the Church 
of England, with whom I had ever conversed, had 
assured me that, by the Homilies of his Church, he 
was bound to believe our doctrines with regard to 
the Holy Eucharist, blasphemous and damnable. 

Master Henry used often also to speak of the cha- 
rity of poor Catholics to one another, not only from 
what he had seen in Belgium, where, as the poverty 
is not great, he had not so much opportunity for 
observation, but also from the accounts he had 
heard from a friend, who had made a tour in Ire- 
land. He told me how the very poorest people, 
who have scarcely perhaps enough for one poor 
meal of potatoes for themselves, never refuse to the 
wandering beggar a share in that meal. 

“Out of their poverty,’^ said Master Henry, 
“ they give what many would grudge even from 
their abundance; and surely God will reward them 
for it.^^ 

And as I heard the well-merited tribute to my 
poor, but generous and warm-hearted countrymen, 
the tears rose in my eyes, and my heart swelled 
with the thought that I, too, drew my origin from 
a land where the precepts of our Lord were thus 


116 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


observed — where, amidst oppression, poverty, and 
misery, they had kept the faith pure, unsullied, and 
fervent as ever. 

Master Henry told me of so many things that 
were quite new to me, though a Catholic, that I 
think it may interest some of my Catholic friends 
if I repeat them. He described to me a very 
beautiful custom which extends through a great 
part of the Continent, of the association of a certain 
number of churches for the perpetual adoration of 
our Lord in the blessed Eucharist. In Rome, he 
told me, it is called “ the forty hours,^^ for in each 
church, by turns, the holy sacrament is exposed 
for forty hours, when the church is crowded con- 
stantly with devout worshippers; and there are, 
besides, the members of a society, some of whom 
continue in prayer at the altar the whole time. At 
the beginning and end of these forty hours, there 
is always a solemn high mass sung; and while the 
last high mass completes the forty hours in one 
church, there is another sung to commence the 
same time of adoration in another church; so that 
there is not one moment in that city where our 
Lord is not surrounded by devout and earnest sup- 
plicants. Master Henry had never been in Rome; 
but he had seen the same thing in Belgium, where 
the different parishes have each a day in the year 
appointed for this holy object, when each member 
of the society spends one hour either during the 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


117 


day or night, before the altar, praying to our 
Lord. 

^‘And oh, my Grodl’^ would my young master 
say, ^^do thou hear the petitions of these thy 
devout worshippers; do thou accept their sighs of 
love, their tears of contrition, in atonement for the 
coldness, the apathy, nay, the disrespect and mock- 
ery with which thou art greeted in this unhappy 
country V* 

When the time drew nigh for Master Henry to 
leave us again, he one day called me to speak to 
him. 

‘^Pat,’^ he said, I have a proposal to make to 
you, and you must honestly tell me whether you 
like it or not. I wish to have a servant with me 
constantly, in whom I can confide. From all I 
have seen of you, and all I have heard of you in 
my absence, you are the person I should fix upon; 
and my father, who thinks the change would be 
for your advantage, has consented to give you up 
to me, if you are willing to go. What do you say,, 
then 

1 did not know what to say. Dearly did I love 
my young master, and well would I have liked to 
be constantly with him. But how could I leave 
Ellen? Surrounded as she was with admirers, 
how could I hope she would still remember me, if 

I were to leave A ? And as for making an 

engagement with her before my departure, I knew 


118 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


her father would never consent to such a thing; 
and without his consent, I should have thought it 
unprincipled to bind her to any thing. Master 
Henry saw the embarrassment on my face. 

am afraid you don’t want to go with me, 
Pat,” he said. ^‘Well, I am sorry for it, but I 
shall still have the satisfaction of knowing it is my 
own father you have preferred to me.” 

^^Oh, Master Henry,” I said, there is no one 
I should like to serve so well as you, and it is not 
for that — but — there is a girl, sir, that I like, 
and that I think likes me, but I fear her friends 
won’t consent, and if I were away she might be per- 
suaded to marry some one else. If you were not 
going quite so soon, sir — if I had only time to get 
her consent to speak out to her father, and get his 
answer at once, then, sir, I could answer you 
decidedly. I would either stay with her if she 
would have me, or if not, with all my heart would 
I go to serve you. I could be happy near you, 
sir, I think, even in that case, but I could not 
bear to lose her by neglecting her, or by her 
thinking so, which would be all one.” 

^^Well, Pat,” said Master Henry, smiling kind- 
ly, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. In three months 
I shall be of age, and I shall come back here to 
keep my birthday at home. By that time you will 
likely know what you are about, and in the mean- 
time I shall manage with the scout I had before.” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


119 


I need not say I was most grateful to my young 
master for his kindness, but at the- same time I 
fondly hoped that before it would be necessary to 
decide, I might have induced Farmer Duff to con- 
sent to my marriage with his daughter. 

“Even if he cannot let us marry at once,’^ I 
thought, “by my young master’s influence he may 
be induced to permit the engagement; and oh! 
what will I not do if I have the hope of winning 
Ellen by my exertions.” 


CHAPTEK XVII. 

“Love not, love not! the thing you love may change, 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 

The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange, 

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 

Love not!” 

Hon. Mes. Norton. 

After Master Henry was gone, I took the first 
opportunity to run over to the farm, and explain 
to Ellen my intentions with regard to her. 

“I must speak to your father, my dear Ellen, 
and know at once what hope I have. It is not 


120 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


right our going on in this way without his know- 
ledge ; we cannot be put in a worse position than 
we are, for really this is against my conscience/^ 
Well, if you choose to get forbidden the house, 
I’m sure I needn’t care,” said Ellen. 

“Now, dear Ellen, don’t be unkind. You know 
you would care, and you know also it is not that I 
choose to be forbidden the house at all.” * 

“Well, why will you insist upon speaking to my 
father, when you know that would be the conse- 
quence ?” 

“ I do not know that would be the consequence. 
Though I am not rich now, yet I have the prospect 
of better things. Master Henry has already told 
me he will give me more wages, and I am not apt 
to run into expense. In a few years I shall have 
saved something, and if your father would help us 
a little, we might do very well.” 

“And so I am to wait here in patience till you 
save up halfpennies and pennies enough to keep 
me. A pretty prospect indeed !” 

“ Then what do you mean, Ellen ?” I said. “ If 
you do not' intend waiting till I am able to support 
you, and if you are so sure that your father would 
not help us at once, tell me what do you mean ? I 
cannot, must not be thus trifled with.” 

“Dear me, how violent you are — how sharply 
you take one up. I only want you to put off a little. 
If you need not decide for three months yet, why 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


121 


speak to my father so soon ? There is time enough, 
when you know Master Henry is coming down 
again. It doesnH look as if you cared very much 
for me, that you won’t do me that little favor. 
There’^s poor Primrose — ^there’s nothing I could 
ask he would refuse me.” 

'^No; and he would be able to marry at once, 
without having to wait and save up halfpennies and 
pennies for years. 1 think you had better decide 
on him at once.” 

^‘And if you treat me so unkindly, so I will,” 
said Ellen, bursting into tears; ''after all I have 
done for you, it is too ungrateful.” 

Of course, as usual, when Ellen cried, I was in- 
stantly at her feet, ready to promise whatever she 
liked, and the result of the. conversation was, that 
I agreed to put off my appeal to her father till the 
very last moment before Master Henry’s return, 
when I might also, hope he would use his influence 
to back me. 

But as the time passed on, I had many causes 
of annoyance. For example, sometimes I would 
find Ellen decked out in ribbons that I knew were 
a present from the haberdasher, and though I re- 
monstrated with her on the impropriety of accepting 
presents from a man whom she had no intention 
of marrying, my words had no other effect than to 
make her angry; or if not that, she would begin to 
cry, and call me unkind. In no case did I get my 
11 


122 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


way. Besides this, she was much changed in other 
ways : she was no longer the lively, merry girl I 
had first known her; she became dull and spiritless, 
and often very cross, and if I said anything of it, she 
cried still more, and told me if I knew all she had 
to suffer on my account, I would not be so unkind. 

“On my account, Ellen,^' I said. “Why who 
makes you sulfer ? Your father does not even know 
I care for you, or you for me; he never even sees 
us together.’^ 

“Still though he may not know that, he knows 
that for some reason or other I don’t like Prim- 
rose.” 

“Then, dear Ellen, I must speak out; I cannot 
consent to see you suffer thus on my account. 
Even if your father wefe not willing to let us 
marry, he would no longer, knowing that you 
liked me, teaze you about Primrose.” 

“For mercy’s sake, Pat, do not!” cried Ellen, 
catching hold of my arm. “You know you 
promised me you would not — don’t break your 
word.” 

“Certainly, not without your permission, Ellen; 
but I cannot imagine why you are so unwilling; Pm 
sure it would be much better for us both. You 
are getting quite pale and ill.” 

“ Oh, I will soon be better,” she said ; “ I am 
going for a while to my aunt’s, for change of air, 
and I will get strong there; and you know Master 


AND HTS ORPHANS. 


123 


Henry will be down, and you won’t miss me. Tell 
me, Pat, would you miss me much?” 

Indeed I should, my own dear Ellen,” I said ; 

though I should be glad to suffer that, if it were 
to make you well again, for you are so changed, it 
gives me a sore heart to see you.” 

Well then, you would soon get over it, wouldn’t 
you ?” 

‘^<xet over your going away ? Why should I try, 
when you are coming back so' soon again ? And 
I’m sure you would not be very well pleased if you 
thought I were as happy in your absence as in 
your presence.” 

Indeed then, you are very much mistaken,” 
said she. ^^I think one is a great fool to place 
their happiness upon another person, and though 
you say that to please me. I’m sure after a week 
you’d never think more of me. Isn’t it true?” 

Ellen, you are the strangest girl — there is no 
pleasing you. One minute you want me to say I 
shouldn’t care though you were away; and if I did, 
which I couldn’t, the next minute', you’d take the 
pet at me for having said it.” 

It was fixed that Ellen should go 'to her aunt’s 
about the same time that Master Henry was ex- 
pected down; and though I tried several times to 
persuade her to let me speak to £er father before 
her departure, her distress seemed so great that I 
could not press the subject. During the inter- 


124 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


veiling time I understood her behaviour even less 
than before. Sometimes it appeared as if she 
wished to quarrel with me, and if I had not attri- 
buted all to her ill health, I am sure I would not 
have submitted to the many bitter things she 
said. At other times, on the contrary, she was 
gentler and kinder than I had ever seen her; and 
the night before she left, when I took leave of her, 
she cried bitterly, and said she was not fitted for 
me, and that I deserved a much better wife than 
she would make to any one. 

Ellen left home on the eighth of the month, 
and the tenth was Master Henry’s birthday, so 
that on the evening of the ninth we expected him 
home. Anxious as I was to hear news of the poor 
girl, about whose health I was seriously uneasy, it 
was quite impossible for me to get over to the farm 
until the morning after my young master came of 
age. The rejoicings of the preceding day, and the 
delight of Mrs. Hope at her dear Master Henry’s 
presence, had not been sufficient to make me for- 
get that now was the time to speak to Ellen’s 
father, and according to his answer to decide on 
my future plans. I knew that Master Harry 
could only be at home a week, and with a beating 
heart I set out across the fields to the farm. 

I found the farmer walking about, looking after 
his men, and shaking me heartily by the hand, he 
proposed to take a stroll. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


125 


scarcely thocht to hae seen you, man/^ he 
said, ^‘now that Ellen’s gane, an’ when you’re sae 
busy wi’ the young laird at harae, an a’. But ye 
were aye a kin’ -hearted laddie, an’ I daur say ye 
thocht the auld man wad be lonesome a’ his lane. 
Dang it, but if ye could leave, I’d tak’ ye wi’ me 
when I gang ower the morn.” 

^‘Then you are going to see Ellen, to-morrow?” 
I said. I hope you have no bad news. Is she 
not so well ?” 

Gangin’ to see her the morn,” he said, laugh- 
ing heartily. I think sae indeed. It wad be an 
unco like thing, gin I were na there.” 

^‘1 don’t understand you,” I said. ^^Is there 
any particular reason for going there to-morrow?” 

‘^An’ do you really no ken?” asked the farmer, 
opening his eyes as wide as possible. ^^"VYeel, that 
beats a’ ! I’ll ne’er say again that a woman canna 
keep a secret. I thocht naethin’ o’ her an’ my 
sister, an’ Primrose’s mither arrangin’ to hae it out 
there for the sake o’ peace, an’ to keep a£F a’ the 
clashin’ tongues o’ the folk about here; but I could 
na hae believed she wad hae been sae clever ’s to 
keep it frae you, an’ you sic a favorite, an’ wi’ her 
ilka blessed day.” 

^^But what is it? For God’s sake tell me at 
once what you mean,” I said. ^^What is to be 
done to-morrow ?” 

To be done ! Why Ellen’s to be married, to 


126 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


be sure, an’ a very gude match it is, for he is a 
weel doin’, respectable lad ; no’ but what my Ellen 
might hae looked e’en higher. But I’d ne’er be 
the man to cross her for that. I ancc thocht you 
twa had a notion o’ ane auither, an’ tho’ it wad 
hae been a fule like thing, I dinna think I’d hae 
had the heart to conter ye; bdt it’s far better as 
it is. But Lord bless us, laddie, what’s cam ower 
ye ? ye look like a ghaist i” 

And he had reason to say so. For a minute I 
could not believe my ears; I could not credit that 
Ellen would be so perfidious. Had she honestly 
dismissed me, and said she preferred Primrose, I 
could have borne it. But to lead me on till the 
very last day, making me believe she liked me 
better than any one else, and at the very time when 
I came to ask her from her father, to find how cru- 
elly she had deserted me — it was too much. I 
turned faint, and staggered against the farmer, till 
a flood of tears relieved my bursting heart. 

Apparently the good man now for the first time 
perceived that his former suspicions of my attach- 
ment to Ellen were correct, for he tried to comfort 
me ; but his rough kindness only opened my wounds 
yet wider. I could not stay, but pressing his hand, 
I ran home, and rushed up to my own room, where 
casting myself on the bed, I wept bitterly. 

For a long time my tears and sobs were una- 
bated, and I thought my heart would break, when 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


127 


my eye was caught by the picture of the Virgin 
Mother that hung opposite my bed. The very 
sight of that sweet countenance tended to calm 
me; instead of the wild and stormy passions that 
had raged through my heart, the thought of her 
sorrows filled me with resignation. Though I still 
wept, I no longer thirsted for revenge. I began 
to reflect that my mind had been so absorbed by 
the creature, that I no longer had a heart to give 
my Creator, and that, however painful the awaken- 
ing from my dream might be, Grod, who does all 
things well, had arranged it for my good. Fling- 
ing myself on my knees, “ Oh, my God I said, 
^^thy holy will be done. Holy Virgin Mother! 
do not forsake your miserable child! Take me, 
and ofler me, with my whole heart and soul, to thy 
Divine Son ! He alone will never forsake me ! He 
alone can satisfy my whole heart \” 

I need scarcely say that I thankfully accepted 
the offer Master Henry had made to take me with 

him when he left A . I could not have borne 

to remain, and run the risk of again seeing Ellen. 
Before leaving, I sent a little note for her to her 
father, begging him to read it, and if he thought 
proper, to give it to his daughter. I could not find 
in my heart to address it Mrs. Primrose, but merely 
wrote on it the words ‘^To Ellen,^^ and the contents 
were simply to say that I forgave her and wished 
her every happiness. 


128 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

“ There is nothing dark, below, above, 

But in its gloom I trace thy love, 

And meekly wait that moment when, 

Thy touch shall turn all bright again!” 

Moose. 

Occupied as I was with my own griefs, I could 
not help observing something odd in the conduct 
of Master Henry, and also of Mrs. Hope, the day 

of our departure from A . In the morning 

my young master rose very early, and was for a 
very long time closeted with his old nurse, and 
when they separated. Master Henry’s eyes were 
red, and Mrs. Hope was so unwell, she went to bed 
again, saying she did not want any breakfast. My 
young master then went out to take a walk, and 
when he returned to meet his father, his appear- 
ance was the same as usual. 

The coach was expected to pass the gate about 
mid-day, and I went out to watch for it, and get 
the luggage put in. There was a boy with me to 
call Master Henry down in time, but when the 
coach came in sight at a distance, I thought I would 
leave the boy in charge of the trunks and go for 
my young master myself, so as to have the chance 
of again seeing my good old friend, Mrs. Hope. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


129 


Master Henry was in the study with his father, 
and when I opened the door, to tell him there was 
no time to lose, he stopped Mr. Murray, who was 
hastening to accompany hini to the gate, saying, 
“Bless me first, my dear, dear father, and for- 
give any faults I have committed against you. It 
may be long ere we meet again.^' 

“ God bless you, my dear boy, and keep you the 
same as I have ever found you. You have never 
given me a moment’s uneasiness.” 

“God grant you may always say the same!” 
replied my young master, in a voice broken with 
emotion. 

As I followed Mr. Murray and his son down 
stairs, a door opened behind us, and Mrs. Hope, 
running up to Master Henry who was behind his 
father, seized his hand, and pressed it between both 
hers, but her tears flowed too fast for her to speak. 
My young master stooped down and whispered a 
few words to her, but she shook her head, and 
could not reply. As she passed me, I tried to stop 
her to say good-bye, but I had some difficulty, for 
she had neither eyes nor ears for any one but her 
foster-child. When she did observe me, however, 
she shook hands with me, and saying : “ Oh, laddie, 
laddie, this ’ll break the auld man’s heart,” she 
hastened back to her room. 

Master Henry was inside; and as I sat on the 
top of the coach, I had time to consider what was 


130 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


the meaning of Mrs. Hope’s words to me on part- 
ing; but they seemed quite inexplicable. Who 
did she mean by the old man ? Had she found 
out the manner in which I had been treated by 
Ellen, and did she think the farmer would be 
grieved so much by his daughter’s duplicity? But 
this seemed absurd; and the more I thought on 
them, the less I understood her words. 

About four in the afternoon, we arrived at the 

town of Jj- , where we stopped to dine, it being 

about half way to the place where I expected we 
should sleep ; but I was surprised by Master Henry 
telling me he would go no further that night. 
After dinner he asked for paper and ink to be 
brought to his room, and desired me to be ready 
in an hour to take a letter to the post-office. I 
strolled about the town, in the lamp-light, for 
some time, and then returned to the inn; but 
nearly two hours elapsed before Master Henry’s 
bell rang. When I went up to him, he was lying 
on the sofa, with his back towards me, and the 
letter was on the table. 

There is the letter, Pat,” he said, without look- 
ing round. shall not want you any more to- 
night. I am going to bed.” 

I took up the letter and was leaving the room, 
when, looking at the direction, I perceived it was 
for Mr. Murray. 

^‘Dear Master Henry,” I said, ^^are you ill? 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 131 

Is there nothing I can do for you? My poor 
master will be so alarmed 

Master Henry turned round, and looked towards 
me, and I then saw that he had been weeping. 

I am not ill, Pat,^^ he said ; or at least, I 
sdall be quite well to-morrow; and I have not 
written to my father about that. I shall speak 
more frankly to you in the morning, my poor 
fellow; but at present I am in need of rest.^^ 

I hastened away with the letter; but uneasy as I 
was about my young master, I did not like to dis- 
turb him again that night. I went, however, 
several times to the door of his room, and until a 
late hour I heard him still awake. 

The next day, when I went to ask if we were to 
go on again, or to remain another night. Master 

Henry told me that he should remain at L 

until he should receive an answer to his letter. 

^^It has scarcely been kind, perhaps, Pat,^^ he 
said, to keep secret from you a thing with which 
you have had a great deal to do. But you had 
enough to occupy you in your own affairs before 
we left home; and for that reason I have delayed 
until now informing you that I am, like you, a 
Catholic.^^ 

Words cannot express my happiness at finding 
this was the cause of the mystery that puzzled me. 
I seized my young master’s hand, and kissing it, 
wept for joy. 


132 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


^^Tliank you, my good Pat — thank you,’^ he 
said. I knew you would be glad of this ; but 
now you must help me by your prayers to bear 
the trials it may please Grod to send me, in conse- 
quence of the great grace he has already done me. 
I would not tell my father while I was with him, 
for I could not bear that he should part from me 
in anger, as I fear he would, had I told him of my 
change ; but I have now written to him, and until 
I hear in reply, I cannot quit this place. You 
must pray well for me, Pat, to our Blessed Mother, 
for you were the first cause of my inquiries into 
the Catholic religion.^^ 

‘^But the last time you were at home, sir,” I 
said, ‘^you seemed to think you could be satisfied 
with the Church of England; that in fact, you 
could believe every thing like a Catholic, and yet 
be safe where you were.” 

“You are right, Pat — I had that idea, but I 
soon began to consider that my salvation was too 
important a matter to depend on a chance. I 
knew that, as a Catholic, I should be certain of 
belonging to the true Church ; while, as a Church 
of England man, or as I liked to call myself, an 
Anglo-Catholic, I had at best but a chance. This 
it was that determined me on my present course ; 
and since I have been admitted into the one true 
Church, I need scarcely tell you that I see plainly 
the meaning of our Saviour’s words — “He that is 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 133 

not with me, is against me; and he that gathereth 
not with me, scattereth.^^ 

Master Henry had not long to wait for his 
father’s reply, for on the morning of the second 
day after he had - written, I took up a letter to 
him on which I recognised Mr. Murray’s hand- 
writing. As I gave it into my young master’s 
hand, I saw that he trembled, and his eyes filled 
with tears. 

^^Go and pray for me, Pat,” he said; fear I 
shall have need of it.” 

I did as he desired me ; and most fervently did 
I beseech my Holy Mother to soften the heart of 
my old master, or if such were not the will of God, 
to obtain for his son strength and resignation. 

It was a long time before I ventured to return 
to my master’s room. When at last I knocked, 
he rose and unbolted the door, which he had 
fastened, saying, 

‘^Come in, Pat — come in.” 

When I looked at him I saw that his eyes were 
red with weeping, but a heavenly smile of resig- 
nation and hope played on his lips. 

It is as I feared, Pat,” he said. My father 
refuses to see me, or to hold any further commu- 
nication with me until I return, as he calls it, 
cured of my mad folly, to beg his forgiveness. 
This you know can never be ; so, unless it be the 
will of God to change his sentiments towards me, 
12 


134 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


I may say I have lost my father. It is a hard 
trial; but I must not murmur at the Divine Wis- 
dom that has counted me worthy to suffer some 
little thing for his sake. Had all things gone 
well with me, I might have feared, but now I have 
comfort; it seems that our Blessed Lady, wishes 
me to belong altogether to her Son.^^ 

As it was no longer necessary to remain at L , 

our arrangements were soon made for continuing 
our journey. My young master intended proceed- 
ing directly to a Catholic college, where he pro- 
posed making a retreat of ten days, and I expected 
to go with him; but before we started he told me, 
that, as during his retreat, he should not want a 
servant, he had made arrangements for me to go 
to Clearburn, and remain with my old friends for 
a few days. I need scarcely say what pleasure 
this gave me, but I was at the same time grieved 
to leave Master Henry in his present circumstances. 
However, his kind assurances soon overcame my 
objections. 

Behold me, then, once more on the top of the 
coach, on my return to the dear home of my child- 
hood. I had not been able to write to Mr. Drum- 
mond; and as I had been nearly two years away, 
and was a good deal altered in appearance, I doubted 
much if either my kind father or Nelly would re- 
cognise me at first. My dress, too, was different 
from that in which they had been accustomed 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


135 


to see me; for I had on my best clothes which 
were black, and Mrs. Hope used to tell me that 
on Sundays I might pass for a young priest my- 
self. 

As we approached the town, my heart beat to 
recognise so many familiar objects. The chapel- 
house was on the opposite side of Clearburn from 
that at which we entered, but as we drove on I 
could see the group of trees in the midst of which 
it was situated. It was begicning to grow dark 
as we rattled through the street, yet I pulled 
my hat over my eyes for fear of being recognised 
by any of my former acq^uaintances before going 
home. At last, we came to the inn, and jump- 
ing down, I hastened towards the house of my 
kind father. 

As I went on, I passed close to our little burial 
place, and I could not resist going in to visit the 
grave of my little Joe. As I walked to the well- 
known corner, I was startled by the number of 
tomb-stones. Heath had been busy among our 
little <3ongregation since my departure; and though 
I had been told of each in the letters of Father 
Drummond, yet when I saw their names they pro- 
duced a new and startling effect on my mind. 
Scarcely stopping, however, I hastened on to look 
for the little flowery mound, and the wooden cross 
that used to mark the resting place of our little 
darling. The little cross was no longer there, but 


136 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


in its stead was one of marble, on which were in- 
scribed the following words : — 


JOSEPH MARY BYRNE, 

AN ORPHAN, 

who returned to the arms of liis Heavenly Mother, 
Christmas, 18 — , 

Aged six years. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ Oh, friendship ! flower of fairest hue, 

To earthly hands so seldom given ; 

Thy bloom shall other chines renew. 

Thy native soil is heaven.” 

By the time I reached the house, it was quite 
dark ; and when Nelly came to the door, she had 
not the slightest idea who I was. 

‘‘Is Mr. Drummond at home?’^ I asked, in a 
low tone that she might not recognise my voice. 

“Ay, sir,’^ she replied, “he’s at hame; but gin 
yer business is na very pressin’, I wadna like to 
disturb him the noo. There’s a wheen puir bodies 
speakin’ wi’ him.” 

“And Mr. Macdonald?” I said. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


137 


^^Mr. Macdonald i’ the chapel vestry, bearin' 
confessions. He canna be disturbit on nae ac- 
count — unless to be sure, sir,’' she added, ye're 
mindit to gang to yer duty yersel; an' then ye can 
gang in by, an’ I’ll tell my maister, or else gang ower 
to the chapel, an' walk in at the vestry door." 

shall go in, if you please; but don't disturb 
Mr. Drummond; I can wait till he is at leisure." 

Nelly opened the door of the back parlor, and I 
walked in, while she went for a light. In her ab- 
sence I took off my hat and great coat, so as to look 
a little more like my old self. 

^^May a body speer yer name, sir?" inquired 
Nelly, as she returned with the candle. 

Without answering, I turned round, and looked 
at her. The poor body jumped so with fear, she 
almost fell, though, fortunately, the candle was 
safe on the table. 

^^Lord preserve us! Are ye a ghaist, or are 
ye my ain dear laddie, Pat?" she said. 

Of course I s6on proved to the good old woman 
that I was real flesh and blood, and the same as 
the child to whom she had held the place of a 
mother. I cannot describe her delight, though 
she scolded me well for having deceived her at first. 

^^To gang an' mak' a fule o' sic an auld body, 
an' gar me trow ye were a stranger, an' a gran' 
gentleman forbye 1" 

Indeed, Nelly, you didn't think me such a grand 
12 # 


138 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


gentleman, or you would have gone to get Father 
Drummond to speak to me at once/^ 

^^Oh, laddie/’ replied Nelly, “what gars ye tell 
sic a story ! Fm sure ye ken weel he wadna send 
awa the duddy hits o’ bodies for a’ the gentry i’ the 
Ian’ ! An’ sure ye dinna think sae ill o’ me ’s to 
believe I wad forget wha lived at Nazareth, an’ baud 
in light esteem the Lord’s puir? But that’s them 
awa, an’ I’ll rin for him noo.” 

And, ere a minute had elapsed, I was clasped in 
the arms, and had received the heartfelt blessing 
of my dear and kind father; and soon my brother 
also returned, and welcomed me back to the home 
of my childhood. 

“How good God is!” said the old man, as we 
were all seated round the fire at night. “ I could 
scarcely have hoped to be again surrounded by so 
many of my family. Our little Joe is, I doubt 
not, praying for us in heaven j and if poor Dick 
were but here, I should be quite happy. But 
perfect happiness is not' good for man on earth,” 
he continued, looking round, and smiling; “and 
God’s holy will be done always. I should be most 
ungrateful to complain, surrounded as I am with 
blessings.” 

“ When did you hear last from Dick ?” I asked. 

“ I had a letter the other day,” said Tom, hast- 
ily; “but we shall let you ’read it to-morrow, and 
tell you all about him.” 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


139 


I told them how I had visited Joe’s grave and 
asked who had put up the marble cross. 

^^It was Dick/’ said Father Drummond, '^my 
poor sailor boy! He saved all his money from 
the moment he went to sea, till he could spare 
enough for that purpose. He is a fine-hearted 
lad! Grod preserve him, and keep him from yield- 
ing to evil example !” 

It was not till the next day that I heard more 
particulars about Dick. It seemed that, while on 
shore for a short time between his voyages, he had 
got acquainted with a girl in a small fishing village 
on the south coast of England. From the little 
that Dick mentioned of her father. Mr. Drum- 
mond had long suspected him to be a smuggler j 
and, considering the scenes of violence and blood- 
shed that so often occur in such a life, he had dis- 
couraged Dick’s evident wish to marry the girl, 
fearing the connection might lead him into evil. 
When Dick returned to sea. Father Drummond’s 
fears had been tranquillized; but now he was 
again on shore, and the letter which had just been 
received, was to announce his marriage. He, how- 
ever, desired Tom to assure Mr. Drummond that 
he would not join in any of his father-in-law’s en- 
terprises, but would continue to go voyages, as he 
had been accustomed to do, leaving his wife in her 
father’s house, whenever he should be absent. The 
last clause gave us all great uneasiness, as it proved 


140 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


that Dick would be much with the smugglers while 
on shore between his voyages; but as our dear fa- 
ther said, have always put all my children under 
the special protection of the Blessed Virgin, and 
she will watch over her own 

I had several long conversations upon my own 
affairs with my father and brother, during my stay 
at Clearburn, and I told them frankly all that had 
happened to me since Tom's visit to me, at Mr. 
Murray’s house. A grief told is partly cured; 
and my telling the whole story^of my connection 
with Ellen Duff to these kind and sympathising 
friends, did more to soothe my wounded heart than 
I could have believed anything would. Much as 
I loved my young master, our relative situations 
half forbid my intruding these particulars upon 
him ; and since the hour that I received the intel- 
ligence of Ellen’s proposed marriage, this was the 
first time that I had given way to my feelings. 
But, though my dear father sympathised fully with 
my grief, he did not forget to point out to me the 
evils that might have ensued, had I been married 
to Ellen. 

^‘1 believe, my dear boy,” he said, ^^that your 
love for your religion is so great that you never 
could have forsaken it to please any one, however 
dear to you ; and perhaps you might even have in- 
duced your wife to follow your example. But that 
does not often occur, unfortunately, in the mar- 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


141 


riages of Catholics and Protestants. It too often 
happens that the Catholic husband or wife neglects 
their religious duties ; or if they do not, the dif- 
ference of religion causes disputes and disunion 
between those who, it is the will of God, should 
live together in unity and mutual forbearance. 
Much as you have suffered, you know that God 
has brought it all about for your good. He wishes 
to have you all to himself.’^ 

have often thought this, my dear father,’’ 
I said, ^^and have wished much I could be a mem- 
ber of one of those holy communities of which 
you have so often told us; who live for no other 
object than to love and praise God. I am sick of 
this vain and heartless world, and long to quit it.” 

^^You have quite mistaken my meaning, my 
dear Pat,” said the good old man; perhaps it 
may some day or other be the will of God to call 
you to such a life, and then I am sure no one will 
rejoice more than myself, to see you a good reli- 
gious man. But the disgust of the world which 
you feel just now, in consequence of your disap- 
pointment, is no sign of a vocation. If it be the 
will of God, no doubt this may be a part of the 
means by which he prepares you for such a change; 
but at present you are not in a condition to judge 
of such a thing; you could not expect our Lord 
to be satisfied with the wrecks of a heart tl\!it is 
only offered to him because rejected by a creature. 


142 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


And besides, these feelings will pass away ; if after 
a few years you tell me that they are unchanged, 
then, I will believe you have a true vocation to a 
religious life/^ 

In talking over with Father Drummond, the 
different temptations to which I had been exposed, 
he sometimes thanked God for having before I left, 
inspired him with the thought of making me pro- 
mise to abstain from spirituous liquors. 

think that under God,” he said, ^‘it has been 
the means of saving you from ruin. With the 
companions you have been thrown amongst, espe- 
cially that unhappy man, M’Evoy, had they suc- 
ceeded in making you intoxicated, they might have 
led you into any crime; and blessed be our sweet 
and Holy Mother, who gave you strength to resist 
their temptations to break your promise. Always 
take the same plan, my dear boy; always in diffi- 
culty and temptation, have recourse to her, and 
she will never refuse" her assistance.” 

The news of Master Henry’s 'conversion also, 
gave great joy to the little household at Clearburn. 

“The sweet cratur,” said Nelly, “my heart 
warmed to him at the vera door cheek whan he 
cam’ here first.'" I aye thocht he was a babe o’ 
grace.” 

Father Drummond and Tom did not rejoice less 
than Nelly at the good news, and they both pro- 
mised to pray much for Mr. Murray, that he might 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


143 


be reconciled to his son, or perhaps even follow his 
example. 

My time flew swiftly by among such kind friends, 
and soon I got a letter from Master Henry to sum- 
mon me. He had been ill, he told me, at the col- 
lege, with a new attack of his old complaint, and 
had been ordered to go to a milder climate, so that 
he only waited for me to proceed to the south of 
England. It may be believed that on these tidings 
I lost no time in leaving Clearburn, accompanied 
by the good wishes and blessings of the whole 
household. 

Before I left, Father Drummond gave me many 
messages to poor Dick, in case we should pass near 
the village where he still was with his wife; and 
thus for the second time did I quit the roof of my 
protector, just about two years after I first entered 
the busy world, under no wiser earthly guidance 
than my own. 


144 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride ? 

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? 

And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen 

Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow 

Hamilton. 

When I rejoined Master Henry I was quite 
grieved to see him, he looked so ill; and he had 
a nasty short cough that he could not get quit of. 
Fortunately the season of the year was favorable 
to him, as spring was fast advancing; and by re- 
moving to a warmer climate, the physician who 
attended him thought he would be sure to come 
round. I was grieved to have been absent from 
him during his attack, but he assured me that • he 
had experienced every possible kindness and atten- 
tion from the good superiors of the college. 

For some months we wandered about the south 
of England, the health of my young master gra- 
dually improving; but any one would have thought 
his sole object in travelling had been the advance- 
ment of the Catholic Church in England. He 
rarely went into society except that of the Catho- 
lic clergy, and every poor mission in the places 
through which he passed, felt the benefit of the 
ample fortune of which he was now possessed. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


145 


A short time after quitting the college, we had 
passed through the county in which Dick’s wife 
lived, and I have no doubt Master Henry would 
willingly have allowed me to go for a short time 
to see my brother. But I had heard from Father 
Drummond that Dick himself had gone for a short 
voyage, and my curiosity to see his wife was not 
sufficient to induce me to leave my young master, 
even for a day or two, in his then precarious state 
of health. A month or two after, I heard that 
Dick was once more on shore, but we were then 
far away, and I had to put off my visit till a more 
convenient opportunity. 

In the meanwhile Master Henry’s health im- 
proved so fast as the summer advanced, that my 
fears for him were quite set at rest, and in autumn 
I was meditating on the propriety of asking leave 
to go to visit Dick, when I received an alarming 
letter from Father Drummond. He besought me, 
if possible, to hasten immediately to Oldhaven, the 
village where Dick had married, as he was in great 
uneasiness on his account. It appeared that my 
poor brother had been much longer than usual in 
writing home, but Father Drummond had not been 
alarmed, until he saw an account in the news- 
papers of an affray between some smugglers and 
the revenue officers near the village of Oldhaven. 
An officer had been killed, and the culprits having 
fled, had not since been heard of. Among the 
13 


146 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


smugglers, Dick’s father-in-law had been recog- 
nized, and as Dick himself had disappeared with 
the others, there was little doubt he also had been 
engaged in the scufBe. Several of the coast-guard 
were able to swear to the man who fired the fatal 
shot, so that Dick was certainly innocent of the 
worst part of the business; and Mr. Drummond 
would have instantly begged him to give himself 
up, had he any clue to his place of concealment; 
therefore he wished me to go to the village, and 
see his wife, so as, if possible, to find out the poor 
fellow himself. 

My dear young master did all in his power to 
expedite my journey, furnishing me with money 
which might be useful in my inquiries, and pro- 
mising to follow me himself in a few days. I 
travelled all night, and by the evening of the 
second day I reached the town nearest to Oldhaven 
through which the coach passed. It was too late 
to do any thing that night, but I made every 
arrangement for reaching the village early the fol- 
lowing morning. 

There was no doubt that any one inquiring 
about the refuge of these unhappy men would be 
regarded with great suspicion in the smuggling 
village, and I thought it wisest to go at once to 
Dick’s wife, and tell her who I was. The cottage 
to which I was directed was rather apart from the 
others, and its appearance certainly superior. The 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


147 


little garden in front, though latterly neglected, 
bore traces of the care that had been bestowed on 
its cultivation. The roses and woodbine which 
grew up the front of the house almost covered the 
windows, and though a good many weeds had 
sprung up unchecked, I could see that my dear 
brother had not forgot the lessons we used to learn 
as children, in gardening. 

The cottage door was open, and I entered the 
kitchen, which was empty. I did not like to open 
any other door, but I knocked at one that appa- 
rently led into an inner room, and in a minute it 
was opened by Dick^s wife. She appeared a mere 
girl, and I should never have thought she was the 
person I sought, had she not evidently been near 
her confinement, which I had heard was supposed 
to be the reason she did not join her husband and 
father. She was pale, with dark eyes and hair, 
and a small beautifully formed mouth, the unusual 
redness of which relieved her extreme paleness, 
which would otherwise have been almost death- 
like. I soon told who I was, and the eyes of 
the poor creature were suffused with tears as she 
told me how often Dick used tp talk to her of 
me, and of Tom, and of our kind, kind Father 
Drummond. 

“Oh, he is so vexed on his account !’' she said— - 
“that is/^ she continued, correcting herself, “Fm 
sure he must be. But you will write to the good 


148 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


old man will you not, and tell him poor Dick is 
not to blame at all. It was I that sent him ; it is 
all my fault; he never would have gone with them, 
only when there was a cargo to be landed they 
were disappointed of some hands, and I was fright- 
ened for my father, and begged him to go and 
help. Poor, poor fellow! Grod forgive me! It 
was a sad day for him when he first saw me and 
the poor girl wept bitterly. 

“But there would be no fear of him if he would 
give himself up,” I said. “ He did not fire the 
shot, and it being his first offence, he could not 
be hardly dealt with, even for the smuggling.” 

“Ah, you don’t know these sharks,” she said, 
bitterly. “What would they care for its being 
his first offence ? Was he not seen with arms in 
his hands ? Is not he married to the daughter of 
a well-known smuggler? Oh, wretch, fool that I 
was to persuade my dear, generous husband to a 
thing of which his conscience disapproved !” 

“Believe me,” I said, “you take the thing too 
seriously. I do not believe Dick would be in any 
danger, and as soon as my young master arrives 
I shall get him to consult a lawyer on the subject. 
Meanwhile, tell me where poor Dick is, and let 
me communicate on the subject with himself.” 

The face of the girl changed completely; instead 
of her eager, excited manners, she now seemed 
quite stolid, almost stupid. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


149 


They hadn’t time to come home and tell where 
they were going/’ she said. 

‘‘But do you not know?” I asked. 

It was evident she distrusted my motives in 
asking, for she looked at me almost fiercely a 
moment, and then relapsing into her stupid man- 
ner, she replied — 

. “ It’s not likely men would trust a woman with 
their secret.” 

“Still I am sure they have trusted you with it, 
and I am sure you may trust me. Kemember I 
am alnlost Dick’s brother; that we have been 
brought up together from childhood. You must 
know I only wish his good; believe me, much as 
you love him, you cannot be more desirous to 
serve him than I am. Do you doubt that I am 
really Patrick Whelan? From the very things 
your husband must have told you of his childish 
days, I can prove it. Has he not talked to you of 
his little angel brother, Joe? — of his death on 
Christmas morning? Has he not told you of the 
first use he himself made of his earnings ?” 

“Oh, yes,” she said, somewhat moved. “I do 
not doubt you are Patrick; Dick has so often de- 
scribed you all, I could almost know each one of 
the family at Clearburn without being told. But 
even if I knew where my husband was, I would 
tell no one — not even you, not even the good 
priest. I have done him enough of evil already — 
13 * 


150 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


I cannot run any risk of doing him more ; and even 
supposing you were sure of getting Dick clear off, 
could you ask me to give up my own father?'^ 
^^Then will you send Dick a letter from me?'' 
I asked, as I saw there was no chance of persuad- 
ing her to let me seek him personally. 

I never said I knew how to send it," she said, 
hesitating, ^^but you can leave your letter, and if 
I hear anything of them, I shall let him have it." 

Even after Master Henry's arrival, this was all 
I could gain from Alice, and my inquiries in other 
quarters were even more ineffectual. For some 
time I hoped to get an answer to the letter I had 
sent to my poor brother; but, as I found after- 
wards, his wife, fearful of his being persuaded to 
give himself up to justice, never delivered it. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


151 


CHAPTER XXL 

“Lady, so great art thou and such thy might, 

That whoso grace desires and asks not thee, 

Desire indulges, ere equipp’d for flight. 

Thy kindness succoreth not him alone 
Who asks thy aid, but oft spontaneously 
Runs in advance, and is unask’d for, shown.” 

Weight’s Dante. 

Not very long after our fruitless visit to Old- 
haven, Master Henry had the pleasure of meeting 
an old college friend, named Wilmot. This young 
gentleman was travelling about for amusement, 
and he soon persuaded my young master to accom- 
pany him to Portsmouth, where he had many 
friends among the naval officers. In consequence 
of his intimacy with Mr. Wilmot, Master Henry 
was induced to enter more into society than he had 
ever done before, since I was with him; but he 
did not like it, and soon would have left the town, 
to pursue his quiet country excursions, had it not 
been for the persuasioRS of his friend. 

At last, when Master Henry had quite made up 
his mind to leave Portsmouth, Mr. Wilmot who 
was very fond of his society, introduced him to the 
captain of a fine frigate, which was just going to sea. 
Captain Walsingham took a great fancy to my 


152 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


young master, and asked both him and Mr. Wil- 
mot to accompany him on his trip. His orders at 
present, he said, were to cruise about on the Irish 
coast, and if he were obliged to go to any distant 
station, if they did not like to go farther, he could 
land them at some place whence they might easily 
cross over to England. As it was thought a voy- 
age would be very beneficial to Master Henr/s 
health, he was soon persuaded to agree, and ac- 
cordingly, early in November, the weather being 
unusually mild, we went on board the frigate. 

For some days I knew little of what was going 
on, as I was a prey to that terror of landsmen, 
sea-sickness j but after a little I was better, and 
able to enjoy the fine weather on deck. Master 
Henry was an excellent sailor, and the bracing sea 
air seemed to agree wonderfully with him. We 
had sailed on a Monday, and Captain Walsingham 
had promised to land us on the Hish coast early 
on Sunday morning, without which promise I doubt 
if Master Henry would ever have agreed to go on 
board, as a pleasure trip would not have been a 
sufficient excuse to his conscience for neglecting to 
hear mass on a day of obligation. 

It was a most beautiful morning when we were 
landed at a little sandy cove, near which was a 
fishing village where there was a chapel. The 
scenery in the neighborhood was wild in the ex- 
treme; the rugged precipices that overhung the 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


153 


sea, and the sunken rocks rendered the coast ex- 
tremely dangerous; in fact, the little cove at which 
we landed was the only accessable spot for miles. 
, Farther inland the country was exceedingly moun- 
tainous; there was no large town near, but every 
here and there in the valleys you came suddenly 
on a small hamlet, inhabited by the rude but kindly 
peasants of the district. 

^^And this is Ireland,^^ I said to myself — ^Hhis 
is the land of my forefathers and flinging my- 
self down, I passionately embraced the soft green 
turf. 

It may easily be imagined what were my feel- 
ings on this my first visit to my own dear country. 
To see the religion which, though a glory to me, 
was in England or Scotland generally considered a 
reproach — to see the one holy Church loved and 
venerated — to watch the earnest and heartfelt de- 
votion of the poor peasant, who, after hearing mass, 
would approach the shrine of the Blessed Virgin, and 
recite his Bosary with sighs and tears of love and 
contrition, — filled my heart with joy and gratitude. 
What matter to these honest hearts that they were 
poor, and despised by their richer neighbors ? What 
matter if, perhaps, they now worked as laborers on 
the lands over which their forefathers had ruled? 
One part, the most precious part of their inherit- 
ance, was still their own ; the stranger had their 
riches and their honors, but they had retained the 


154 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


faith of their fathers — the faith of the one true 
Church — the faith of the apostles! 

As Master Henry waited after mass to go into 
the house and call on the parish priest, by whom 
he was then invited to dine, I was left to my own 
resources, and I wandered away among the moun- 
tains. I intended to return in time for dinner, 
and afterwards to go to the evening service; but 
the time flew by so swiftly, that, while still a good 
way from the village, the parish clock struck the 
hour at which I had been told the service com- 
menced. It was useless to proceed, as I would be 
too late; so I determined to return a short way, 
to a spot where a small shrine to our Blessed Mo- 
ther had been erected by the piety of the parish 
priest, there to perform my devotions. I took out 
my prayer book from my pocket, to say the Litany 
of Saints, but my eyes were attracted by the title- 
page. The book had been a present from Hick 
when he went to sea; it had formerly belonged to 
him and Joe, and the large straggling letters in 
which they had each written their names, had 
been religiously preserved. As I looked at them, 
thoughts of these dearly-loved companions crowded 
on my mind. I had no doubt where Joe was; but 
where was Hick? Among the desperate men in 
whose company he was thrown, what crimes might 
he not be led into ? My tears flowed unrestrained as 
I thought on this ; and the book fell out of my hand. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 155 

^^0 refuge of sinners!’^ I cried, save him — 
save my poor brother 

I do not know how long I remained in prayer ; 
but when I was aroused by a voice calling my 
name, it was dusk. The voice I had recognised 
to be Master Henry’s, and I now dimly perceived 
his figure, followed by another, coming up the 
mountain. I ran down to meet him, and assure 
him of my safety, for I found he had been alarmed 
at my long delay, and had requested the servant of 
the good priest to guide him in search of me. 

“ I was quite uneasy on your account, Pat,^’ he 
said, ^Hor it seems there are some desperate cha- 
racters lurking about these mountains. I had a 
note just now from Captain Walsingham, to 
apologise for not sending off for us until to- 
morrow, as he has been requested to assist in the 
defence of the house of a gentleman in the neigh- 
borhood, which is expected to be attacked this 
very night.’’ 

‘‘ To be attacked, sir ?” I said. How is that ?” 

‘‘It appears,” continued Master Henry, “that 
he has rendered himself unpopular by ejecting 
some of his poor tenants who were unable to pay 
their rents. Captain Walsingham wishes us to 
join him in the house; and I suppose it is better 
to do so, as such violent proceedings on the part 
of the peasantry are unjustifiable, and must be 
resisted. Still, my heart bleeds for the poor people 


156 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


who have been so cruelly treated. G-od knows 
the Irish landlords have much to answer for, when 
they thus excite to madness hearts naturally true 
and faithful 

We walked on in silence towards Castle Corbet, 
the name of the house we were bound for. At 
the head of the avenue we met Captain Wal- 
singham, who turned and walked back with my 
master. 

‘‘This is an unpleasant business, Murray,^^ he 
said ; “ I wish I had nothing to do with it. The 
poor people have been terribly ill-used by this 
fellow, Corbet ; and, to my thinking, he deserves 
all they could do to him. It seems he was quite 
a low fellow, and made a good deal of money 
as an agent, by squeezing rents out of the poor 
people for some one else, till he saved enough out 
of his perquisites to buy this estate, and build the 
great staring factory that they call Castle Corbet 
I think I would have found some excuse for back- 
ing out of the affair altogether, only he tells me 
the peasantry have been joined by some fugitives 
from England- — smugglers, I believe, who shot a 
man in a scuffle.’^ 

A cold sweat came over me as I heard these 
words; and I was obliged to catch hold of Master 
Henry, behind whom I was walking, or I should 
have fallen. He was almost as much agitated as 
myself. 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 157 

Where do these smugglers come from, Wal- 
singham he said. Is it from Oldhaven 

^^Yes — I think that is the name of the place. 
But what ails Pat? — he has nothing to do with 
them.^^ 

In a few words, Master Henry explained the 
whole affair while I listened in a state of stupe- 
faction. AYhen, however, I came to myself, I 
would have rushed back in hopes of finding and 
warning Dick, had I not been restrained by the 
sailors, for by this time we had reached the house. 
My grief was frantic, for I knew that blood would 
certainly be shed that night, and that Dick might 
be implicated; and though he might easily have 
obtained pardon for his share in the first offence, a 
second of such a serious nature could scarcely be 
overlooked. 

My agony made me almost mad. I tore my 
hair, I wrung my hands, I insisted on being re- 
leased ; until, in spite of Master Henry’s inter- 
ference, the officer in command ordered me to be 
locked up in a strong room by myself. Had it 
been possible to escape, I should have done so; 
for I tried the windows and doors, but with no 
effect. At last, wearied out with my ineffectual 
efforts, I was relieved by floods of tears; and at 
last, I even fell into a deep, though troubled sleep. 

I dreamed that I was again a child, and playing 
in Father Drummond’s garden with J oe and Dick. 

14 


158 


PATIIER DRUMMOND 


Suddenly, my little companions left me, and I was 
all alone. I ran every where looking for them, 
and calling their names; but there was no reply, 
and I sat down and burst into tears. After a 
while, I looked up; when what was my joy to see 
Joe above me, in a more beautiful part of the 
garden than I had ever seen. I tried to run to 
him, but numberless difficulties came in my way — 
my feet seemed tied together; and sometimes, after 
struggling forward a little way, I slipped back 
farther than ever. Just then I caught sight of 
Dick who was advancing slowly in the same direc- 
tion as myself, I held but my hand to him, and 
at the same moment, Joe smiled and bent down 
towards us both; when a dark figure rushed in 
between, and separating me from Dick with a loud 
noise and a frightful scream, threw us both back- 
wards, down a precipice. 

I started up in terror. The scream still rang 
in my ears, and at first I did not know whether I 
still dreamed or not; but a confused sound of 
voices soon convinced me something unusual had 
occurred. Several shots were fired in quick suc- 
cession ; and I could distinguish the voice of the 
officer of the coast-guard giving orders to his men. 
I rushed to the door, and knocked and pushed at 
it; but in the confusion no one observed me. 
After a little, the noise died away, and for a while 
all was silent. At last, I heard the footsteps of 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


159 


several men coming up the steps, apparently car- 
rying some heavy burden. They passed the door 
of my room; but a strange feeling of I know not 
what, prevented me calling out. The perspiration 
stood in large drops on my forehead, but I was 
incapable of uttering a syllable. I could distin- 
guish every thing that occurred in the house, but 
for some time no one came near me. At last the 
door opened, and Master Henry entered. 

Even now I could not speak; but I took my 
young master’s hand in mine, and looked at him, 
while the tears ran down my cheeks. 

‘‘My poor Pat,” said he, gently, “you must 
be reconciled to the will of God in this hard 
trial.” 

“Is he killed?” I gasped out. 

“No, he is not dead,” replied my young master, 
“but dangerously wounded. It has been a most 
melancholy mistake, for the poor fellow approached 
the house with very different intentions from what 
were supposed. He came so far as the foot of the 
mountain with his wife, and sent her on to warn 
you of our danger, for he had no idea that the plot 
of the smugglers had been discovered, and that 
there were men ready to defend the house. When 
she came near the door, one of the coast-guard 
men challenged her ; and either afraid, or because 
she did not understand what he said, she made no 
reply, when he fired. Alarmed by her scream, the 


IGO 


FATHER DRUMxMOND 


poor fellow rushed forward and received a hall in 
his thigh. It was some time before he was ob- 
served lying on the ground, as the defenders of the 
house, supposing the other smugglers had been 
there, and had fled, hastened up the mountain in 
pursuit, and have not yet returned.^' 

And where is poor Dick?'^ I asked. “Let me 
go to him.’^ 

“You shall, immediately,^^ said my young mas- 
ter, “but at present the good priest is with him, 
hearing his confession. Oh, my dear Pat, think 
how good Grod is to bring him to die where he 
can receive the last sacraments V* 

“Then there is no hope,^^ I said, though tears 
almost choked my voice. 

“ Nothing is impossible with Gk>d,^^ replied Mas- 
ter Henry; “but earthly skill is of no avail.^^ 

When I was admitted into Dick’s room, he was 
quite composed; but it was evident his end was 
near. 

“ Thank God,” he said, pressing my hand, while 
a smile illuminated his pale face, “you at least are 
saved.” 

“But how did you know I was here, my dear 
brother,” I asked. 

Dick moved the bed clothes, and pointed to a 
book that was lying next his heart. 

“When I had at last yielded to the persuasions 
and taunts of the others, who wanted me to join 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


161 


in an attack on tkis house, I went out, and passing 
near the shrine of our Mother, in spite of my evil 
intentions, I knelt down to pray to her, and there 
I found this book.'' 

It was my prayer book, which had dropped from 
my hands, and which I had forgotten in my haste, 
when Master Henry called me. 

‘‘You see, dear Pay^ he continued, “when I 
was doing all I could to ruin myself body and soul, 
the Blessed Virgin interfered. She would not per- 
mit her holy name to be invoked in vain. When 
I saw my own name, and that of Joe, I knew you 
must be one of those whom I had promised to at- 
tack, and I instantly determined to save you at 
whatever risk — not that I thought of meeting 
danger here, for I had no idea the plot had been 
discovered; but I knew if, when they arrived here 
at night, they found you had escaped, I would have 
been suspected instantly. My poor Alice went 
forward to warn you; and I think God will remem- 
ber that it was in consequence of an act of charity 
that she lost her life.^' 

I started involuntarily at hearing of Alice’s death ; 
for, in my eagerness to inquire about Dick from 
Master, Henry, I had scarcely observed what he said 
about the first shot; but, fearful of agitating my 
poor brother, I concealed my emotion. 

“You will be a father to our poor child, dear 
Pat,” he continued^ “the second little orphan Joe 
14 * 


162 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


If the soldiers succeed in finding the hiding-place, 
he will certainly he brought here, and I may yet 
bless my poor babe. But, if not, my dear, dear 
brother Pat, promise me to get him from the hands 
of these desperate men, and have him brought up 
a good Catholic; never mind how poorly, dear Pat. 
I know you cannot afford to keep him yourself; but 
perhaps you can get him placed in some asylum 
for poor Catholic children. Father Drummond will 
help, I am sure.^^ 

“Do not fear, Dick,^^ I said, “your child shall 
want for nothing as long as I can earn a morsel of 
bread. I never will forsake him.^^ 

“And said Master Henry, who was standing 
near, “shall see that Pat be always able to fulfil 
his generous intentions as he would wish.’^ 

“May the Almighty Grod bless you both!’^ said 
my brother. “And as the only return I can make, 
listen to the last words of a dying man. In danger, 
in difficulty, in temptation, in sorrow, in want, or 
misery, fiy always to the Blessed Virgin, to the 
Mother of Mercy, who will never abandon any one, 
however wretched and sinful, that calls on her. 
Oh, my Mother, my sweet Mother, I am resigned 
to God’s holy will, I am willing to die, young as I 
am; and the only thing for which I would min live 
a little longer, is to tell the whole world thy praises, 
thy love, thy pity for poor sinners !” 

Prom this time Dick scarcely spoke at all; his 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


163 


strength failed rapidity, and he became feverish ; but 
he was still able to send messages to Father Drum- 
mond, Tom, and Nelly. Towards the evening of 
the succeeding day he died. His last words were, 
‘‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I give to you my heart 
and my soul V* 

A few days afterwards we followed to the tomb 
the bodies of Dick and his young wife. Requies- 
cant in pace. 



CHAPTEK XXIL 

“ Yes ’t will be over soon. This sickly dream 
'' Of life will vanish from my feverish brain j 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 
From this wild region of unwearied pain. 

Yon brook will glide as softly as before — 

Yon landscape smile — yon golden harvest grow — 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, 

When Henry’s name is heard no more below.” 

Kirke White. 

It is almost needless to say that I did not fail to 
follow Dick’s injunctions, with regard to his child. 
By the aid of the samd person who had before given 


164 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


information about tbe smugglers, the pursuers had 
no difficulty in finding their place of concealment 
among the mountains. Only a few women and 
children, however, were captured, the men having 
probably been alarmed by the noise on their way 
towards the house of the priest. There being, of 
course no charge against these poor creatures, they 
were immediately set at liberty; and I had no dif- 
ficulty in getting into my hands the child of Dick 
and Alice. 

I was a good deal puzzled at first how to dispose 
of the poor infant. He was too young to be with- 
out a nurse, or I should not have hesitated to send 
him for the present, to Nelly’s care. By Master 
Henry’s advice, I agreed with a good woman, the 
wife of a neighboring peasant, and highly recom- 
mended by the priest, to keep the little child for 
some months, when I proposed returning for him. 
In the meanwhile I went back to England with 
my young master. 

My spirits had been so much depressed by the 
trying scenes I had gone through, that it was some 
time ere I was able to exert myself again. The 
first thing that roused me from my selfish apathy 
was a remark made by the servant of a priest we 
went to visit, with whom we had spent a few days 
previous to leaving England. 

‘‘This winter time is hard on your young mas- 
ter,” he said; “there is a terrible change on him 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 165 

since he was here before; and his cough is much 
worse.^^ 

And when, star<-.Ied by this speech, I carefully 
watched Master Henry, I found it was indeed too 
true. In his earnest and kind sympathy with me, 
he had concealed the bad effects that agitation had 
produced on his own delicate frame. A severe cold 
also, that I think he caught on that fearful night, 
had prostrated his strength terribly. And yet I, 
selfish and ungrateful that I was, had been so much 
occupied with my own sorrows, that it was only 
now all this was apparent to me. 

From this moment I determined to devote my- 
self entirely to my dear young master, and strive 
to repair my former negligence. I watched him 
as a mother would her child, and perhaps even 
with more anxiety, for self-reproach was mingled 
in my heart with love. Master Henry never cared 
for himself; andPi thought that perhaps I, by care, 
might have averted the evil consequences of that 
cold; but, alas, when that scourge of our island, 
consumption, has marked a victim to be its prey, 
no care, no watchfulness will avail ! 

Sometimes, as change of air was recommended 
to my young master, I tried to persuade him to 
visit a warmer climate ; but he shook his head, for 
he was convinced his life would be short in any 
case, and he did not wish to die far from his native 
country. He, however, in obedience to the advice 


166 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


of his physician, spent as much time as possible 
in the open air, making excursions to the differ- 
ent places that were interesting to him from asso- 
ciation. 

In this way, we visited almost all the religious 
houses, both of men and women, that were then to 
be found in England; and the quiet and holy 
peace that impregnated, I may almost say, the air 
of such pious foundations, was more delightful and 
salutary to my young master than any scene of 
gaiety or pleasure could ever have been. Among 
other places, we visited the Jesuit College of 

; and here, I believe, had not my dear 

Master Henry been appointed to fill an early 
grave, would he have desired to end his days. 
How often did he speak to me with enthusiasm 
of that wonderful order! — of those true followers 
of our Lord, who, like him, have been always the 
objects of hatred to earthly powers. What a 
noble and glorious vocation did their’s seem to 
him! Not to speak of the glorious deeds of 
their missionaries, their Francis Xaviers, their 
Clavers, &c., what employment was equal to that 
of forming the minds of the young — of detach- 
ing the hearts of so many young and noble spirits 
from the false joys and ambitions of earth, and 
teaching them, whether in the senate or the 
cloister, the camp or the oratory, to do all things 
for Grod alone ! I believe the words of Master 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 167 

Henry on tliis subject had a good deal to do in 
directing my thoughts to my present life. 

In the meanwhile, the health of my young mas- 
ter became weaker and weaker; and at last it was 
easy to see that the physicans themselves, ever 
ready as they are to animate the spirits of their 
patients, had no hope. Master Henry, who had 
long been convinced that his end was near, had 
only awaited the final sentence of the physicians, 
to make his arrangements for death. 

‘‘Let us go home, PaV^ he said to me one 
day, “I should like to die within sight of my 
own native mountains, to breathe once again 
their fresh and pure air. Incensed as my dear 
father was against me, he will not refuse to 
open his arms to his dying son ! Let us return to 
Scotland \” 

In a few days we were on our route; and at 
first the air of his dear native land seemed won- 
derfully to revive my young master. We stopped 
for a day or two at Edinburgh, as he had some 
business matters to arrange; but I was grieved to. 
see him fatiguing himself by long interviews with 
his lawyer. 

“ It cannot be helped, my dear Pat,’^ he said, 
when I remonstrated with him on the subject; 
“ I am making my will. My father will naturally 
have the greater part of what I possess; but I 
must remember the interests of my religion; and 


168 


FATHER DRUWMOND 


such faithful friends as you, my dear fellow, must 
not be left unprovided for.” 

Oh, my dear, dear Master Henry,” I said, 
bursting into tears, “ Grod knows I would not for 
your whole fortune, have one hour of your life 
shortened by this fatigue.” 

By the time we proceeded on our journey, 
my young master^s strength began to sink 
quickly; but so anxious was he to reach his fa- 
ther’s house, that he exerted himself unweariedlyj 
and would take no rest that he could possibly do 
without. 

When we reached the town of L , the same 

place from which he had written to his father 
announcing his change of religion. Master Henry’s 
strength failed completely. He was lifted out of 
the coach, and carried up stairs, where he was 
laid upon a bed, from which he never rose. As 
he felt himself growing weaker and weaker, he 
gave up hopes of reaching his own home, and 
desired me to write to his father, and beg him 
to come and give him his blessing once more, and 
then to go for the Catholic priest. Oh ! what a 
painful task it was to inform the poor old man 
that his dear and only child, whom he had treated 
so harshly, was dying at an inn, and that per- 
haps, with his utmost speed, he might not be in 
time to receive his last breath ! 

, The greater part of the afternoon Master Henry 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


169 


spent in conversation with the priest, who only 
left him to attend to his other indispensable 
duties, but with the promise to return at whatever 
hour he might be sent for. For some time 
after his departure. Master Henry sat up in bed, 
writing a few lines to his father, whom he never 
expected to meet again in this world. As the 
night advanced, he became worse ; the chill damps 
of death stood on his forehead; and about mid- 
night I sent once more for the good priest to come 
and give him the last sacraments. As is so fre- 
quently the case, he rallied for a short time after 
receiving extreme unction, and was able to speak 
to me as I stood weeping by his bed-side. 

^^My poor father, PaV^ he said, have written 
to him; but you will tell him how I loved him. He 
will grieve not to see me and bless me before I go, 
and will reproach himself for his letters to me 
since I left home. But do you tell him that now, 
in the hour of death, I think only of our last 
interview — of the blessing he gave me then — 
and of all his goodness, all his kindness and love 
during my boyhood. And, Pat, if, as I fear, this 
is a hard trial to the old man, comfort him ; he 
will like to have some one near him who loved 
and watched over his son on his death-bed. Bo not 
forsake him. When I am gone, give him the 
letter, and a lock of my hair; and keep one for 
Mrs. Hope also, and for yourself; and tell him 


170 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


that my last earthly thoughts were on him, my 
last prayers for him/^ 

Daylight was now approaching, , and made his 
face look still more pale and ghastly than before. 
We knelt down, and the priest said the prayers 
for the dying. As he uttered the words, Depart, 
Christian soul, there was a noise in the passage, 
and the door flying open, gave admittance to the 
heart-broken father. He rushed forward to the 
bed, crying, My son ! my son and was only 
in time to receive the last sweet smile, and feel 
the faint pressure of the hand of his dying child, 
when he fell down fainting. 

A . 



CHAPTER XXIII. • " 

Our Lord indeed went on disposing him for his own 
service, so that, when he grew more into years, he left the 
world, and became a religious man.” — St. Therksa. 

It was some time ere Mr. Murray was awakened 
to the full sense of his heavy loss: During his 
fainting flt, he had been carried into another room, 
and when he recovered, he found bimsef watched 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 171 

over by Mrs. Hope, who had accompanied him to 
L , and by myself. 

Henry ! — where is my boy he said — my 
only child ! Don’t leave your poor, poor old father. 
Don’t mind my harsh words; I did not mean them ; 
I loved you all the time better than all — better 
than my own soul! Oh, my boy — my darling!” 

He looked round, and seeing the weeping eyes 
of his son’s old nurse, he seemed to recollect him- 
self for a moment, when the dreadful truth flashed 
upon him. 

“He is gone! — dead! And I was not here to 
love him, to press him to my heart, and bless him. 
Oh, miserable old man! — oh, wretched pride! 
Thou hast killed thy son ! — thy dear son, for whom 
thou wouldst have gladly torn thy heart-strings ! 
And now, what is left for thee but to die !’' 

And he tossed his arms wildly about. 

“Grod who gave him, has taken him again to 
himself!” I said, softly. 

The old man looked fixedly at me for a moment. 

“Why take him?” he said — “why take my- 
pride, my joy, my only comfort? Were there not 
thousands of others who could have been better 
spared? God is not just, to take from me my only 
solace !’' 

“Oh, my dear master,” I said, the tears running 
down my cheeks, “do not speak thus! — do not 
blaspheme our heavenly Father! He has taken 


172 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


your dear son to heaven, to be a father to him him- 
self! And he sure, heavy as this blow is, Grod 
has permitted it for your good also. Pray to him, 
my dear, dear master, to make you reconciled to 
his holy will ! Say to him from your heart, ^ Thy 
will be doner 

Mr. Murray was silent for a little, but I saw the 
tears roll slowly from his closed eyelids. 

^^God forgive a poor miserable old manP^ he 
said, at last. 

I took this opportunity of soothing his wounded 
heart by repeating to him the last messages of my 
beloved Master Henry. When I told how he had 
thought on and prized the blessing he had received 

from his father on his departure from A , the 

tears of the old man flowed unrestrained, and seemed 
to relieve him ; but it was not until after, the funeral 
that I put into his hands the letter written to him 
by his son, the night previous to his death. 

As this letter afterwards came into my own pos- 
session, I shall copy it here : — 

^^My father,’^ it began — ^^my dear, dear father, 
as I feel that I am at the point of death, and fear 
never more to see your kind, fatherly smile — never 
more to hear your voice begging God to bless your 
child, I write these few lines to tell you once more 
how I love you, and to beg your forgiveness for all 
in which I have offended you. How I sorrow for 
the grief that you have felt latterly on my account I 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


173 


But in the hour of death I still rejoice that, hy the 
grace of God, I had courage to bear your displeasure 
rather than act against my conscience. Oh, my 
father, my last prayer is, that we may be united as 
members of one Church, in that place where there 
shall be but one fold — one Shepherd! Now that 
in the hour of death I see clearly the things of 
eternity, I know that truth is only to be found in 
the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church. 

^‘Father, listen to the last words of your djong 
son — think what are his prayers for you always, 
living or dead. If by a thousand deaths I could 
teach you to think like me, my father, how gladly, 
with what eagerness would I embrace them ! But 
this will not be needed — God will not refuse to 
hear me. Oh! that I may soon enter into the 
glory of heaven, that I may prostrate myself at 
the feet of the Mother of Jesus, and never rise 
till she has obtained from her Son what I ask for 
my father ! 

commend to your care, my dear father, the 
two kind friends who have watched over me — 
the one in infancy, the other in death. I have 
provided for both, it is true, in my will, yet I hope 
they may never leave you, but remain as kind and 
faithful friends to the father as they have ever been 
to the son. 

^^And now farewell, my father. Bo not sorrow 
for my death, for I go to be happy ! Bo not grieve 
15 * 


174 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


for our latter estrangement, for I know your heart, 
which is so loving towards me; I feel your last 
blessing still descending on my head. Dear, dear 
father, farewell.^^ 

From that time I remained with Mr. Murray 
until his death. He was quite changed after the 
death of his son — a bowed down old man, weary 
of his life, in which there was no charm. He left 

A and wandered about the world, faithfully 

attended by Mrs. Hope and myself. In our jour- 
neys I had an opportunity of receiving under my 
immediate care the little orphan that had been be- 
queathed to me by my brother; and by Mr. Mur- 
ray's permission, he ever after remained a member 
of our household, where Mrs. Hope lavished on 
the little forsaken child for whom her dear young 
master had expressed an interest, all the tender- 
ness of her warm heart. 

Mr. Murray always liked to make the acquaint- 
ance of the Catholic clergy in any place where we 
stayed, and the fact of being a Catholic seemed to 
make his heart warm to any creature, however little 
they might otherwise please him. With the clergy, 
and others well instructed in our religion, he would 
often have long conversations on the subject; but 
it was not till just before his death, which occurred 
when the second little Joe had reached his third 
year, that he openly declared himself a Catholic. 
Then, however, he took care that no one should 


AND HIS OaPHANS. 


175 


mistake his religion. The bulk of his fortune he 
left to the only person who had a claim on it, a 
distant cousin; but his munificent donations for 
charitable purposes were all Catholic. He left a 
large sum to assist in the building of Catholic cha- 
pels in the most destitute parts of the kingdom, 
and for endowing the clergy; and the conditions 
were that they should remember his soul and that 
of his dear son in their masses and prayers. Many 
were the good works that my old master did with 
his fortune, both during his life and at his death, 
but one in which I was greatly concerned, I must 
relate more particularly. 

From the time of my dear Master Henry’s 
death, I had allowed the large sum he had left me, 
to accumulate, with the intention of some day 
applying it all to the execution of a long cherished 
scheme — the institution of an asylum for Catholic 
orphans. Mr. Murray, who was aware of my 
plan, left me as much more as his son had pre- 
viously done, under one condition only, that if she 
pleased, Mrs. Hope, who soon followed his ex- 
ample by becoming Catholic, should be matron. 
As our little Joe was to be the first child admitted 
into the house, I need scarcely say that the good 
woman joyfully accepted the situation; there was 
only one dij0&culty — Father Drummond, Father 
Tom McDonald, and Nelly, naturally wished that 
the only relic of the former little Joe and of Dick 


176 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


should be near them ; but this was soon settled, 
for by my dear father’s advice, while the large 
and commodious building designed for the asylum 
was being built in a field near the chapel-house, I 
rented a cottage in the town of Clearbum, where 
Mrs. Hope and Joe were immediately installed, 
and where Nelly could see the dear child as often 
as she desired. 

As soon as all these arrangements were made, 
and every thing placed under the superintendence 
of Father Drummond, now a very old man, I 
began to consider my own vocation. Happy as I 
would have been at Clearbum, among all my kind 
friends, a residence there would have been incom- 
patible with the life I felt I was called to lead. 
I had heard of the society of the Christian 
Brothers, and the more I inquired about them the 
more was I convinced that among them I might 
secure my own salvation and benefit my brethren. 
There I might pursue the same object, the in- 
struction of youth, as did the good and learned 
Jesuit fathers of whom Master Henry used to 
speak so much. Though without much learning, 
I had received a thorough education on the ordi- 
nary branches, so that in that respect I was not 
altogether unqualified for the life I proposed. 
With the full approbation, then, of my dear 
Father Drummond, about nine months after the 
death of jMr. Murray, I proceeded to my beloved 


AND HIS ORPHANS. 


177 


Ireland to offer myself as a candidate at the 
noviciate of the Christian Brothers. In due time 
I was admitted to take the vows, and ever since 
my life has been one of uninterrupted peace and 
content. 

I have already told all I know of the succeeding 
lives of most of those mentioned in this little 
work, and shall now finish with speaking of a few 
more. The last time I heard of Mrs. Primrose, 
she was a gay widow, and was fast spending the 
money her husband had saved up; the old man, 
her father, had been some time dead. Of M’Evoy 
or Ned Burns I never could hear any thing more. 
Aliceas father, who would never give up his con- 
nection with the other smugglers, was killed in an 
affray with the revenue officers not long after his 
former escape, and I blessed the good God who 
had placed his poor little grandchild where he 
would be saved from a similar fate. 

There has been a proposal for some time past 
to send some of our society to Clearburn, to teach 
the children of the orphan asylum, who have now 
become very numerous. I do not know whether 
or not my superiors will think of sending me 
there, and I am perfectly ready to stay or go as 
they choose, knowing that the will of my supe- 
riors is the will of God. If I go, I shall have the 
delight of once more seeing my dear and kind 
Scottish friends; if I stay, I shall have the satis- 


178 


FATHER DRUMMOND 


faction of being in the land of my dear father, in 
a truly Catholic country — a country where the 
people are not ashamed of their religion, where 
the poor are honored for the sake of our Lord 
Jesus Christ, and where prevails a tender and 
sweet devotion to his ever Blessed Mother. In 
whatever place I am, may my motto be, with the 
glorious St. Ignatius Loyola — 

AD MAJORAM DEI GLORIAM.” 










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